


Canary

by BiJane



Series: Canaryverse [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:28:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6546889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiJane/pseuds/BiJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years ago, the Queen's Gambit sank: and rather than Oliver Queen, it was Sara Lance that washed up on Lian Yu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> I first planned a story based on this idea mid-S2, and finished planning it after S3E1. I had no time to write it, though, and technically still don't, so this is more a whirlwind tour of an AU. There'll be three chapters.  
> It's not just a typical character-swap: five years ago Sara ended up on the island, and Oliver on the Amazo, but there are a fair few consequences of their differing personalities and traits, so this isn't just going to be a retelling with the names changed.

_There is a world where Oliver Queen stumbled aboard the lifeboat, and sat beside his father. There is a world where his father shot himself, and Oliver alone made it to Lian Yu._

_But if his position shifted scant centimetres, if the angle of the ship was altered the tiniest amount, the world would change. Oliver fell into the sea, and Sara Lance fell aboard the lifeboat. Robert Queen was aboard the_ Queen’s Gambit _as it sank, desperately searching for his son._

_Sara Lance hugged her knees to her chest, and starved as she drifted. She was the first to see the shores of Lian Yu, and to learn to survive._

_And the time came, after five years, that she made it home._

* * *

 She was crouched in a bathroom. She’d been in Starling City for maybe an hour, and photographers were already mobbing her. The popularity of the Queen family hadn’t dropped over the past five years, and she was still closely associated with them.

So the surprise survival of someone aboard the _Queen’s Gambit_ had garnered quite a bit of attention.

She ran and hid in the first bathroom she saw. It was the easiest place to get some privacy. The cameras were no doubt lying in wait outside: she just didn’t feel up to dealing with them.

The door swung open. Sara lifted her feet, so they could no longer be seen under the cubicle wall.

“Sara?”

A voice she missed, and hadn’t heard for five years. An involuntary gasp escaped Sara’s lips. A moment later, and there was a knock on her cubicle door.

“Sara?” the woman said again, “Is that you in there?”

She’d imagined this for five years. It had gone so many ways. In some fantasies she’d barely been able to talk, in others she’d broken down, in others she’d been slapped down or ignored. It was rare she imagined a perfect reunion.

She’d just wanted to see her sister again.

A little nervously, Sara reached out, and unlocked the door. Laurel stood there, looking just as uncertain as Sara.

“I heard you were-” Laurel said, in the same instant Sara spoke.

“Laurel, I’m so sorry-”

Both froze. Sara was out of practise at reading her sister’s face: she saw Laurel regard her. Then, with no warning, Laurel stepped closer and wrapped her arms around her.

“That’s the first thing you say?” Laurel said. “Five years, and you’re still apologizing for Oliver?”

“Five years too late. I wanted to-”

“I’m just glad you’re back,” Laurel said.

“Me too,” Sara said. She paused, then slipped onto her feet, and hugged Laurel again.

* * *

 They made it home in a police car. Their father had arranged it, and drove it: paparazzi were less inclined to get in the face of a car with sirens.

“First thing you want to do?” her father said. “Anything’s on the table. I mean it: anything. Nothing’s too good.”

“Pizza,” Sara said at once. “Just, a pizza. And let me try out your mattress. God, I’ve missed actual beds.”

There was a momentary, awkward pause. Sara read the silence quickly.

“Alright,” she said, “What did you do to my room?”

“It’s a study,” Laurel said. Then, a little self-consciously, “My study, for when I bring cases home with me. He hated me leaving files all around the house.”

“Files?”

“After law school,” Laurel said. “Graduated a couple of years ago: I’m working at CNRI, law firm for the Glades.”

“You got through law school?” Sara said. “Wow, sorry I missed that. Though I guess I might not’ve been a huge help.”

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

“You remember how I liked to party, though?” Sara said. “Sure I’d have dragged you on a few late-nighters. Hell, maybe you should be glad I was on the island.”

There was a pause. Sara briefly closed her eyes. Of course they wouldn’t be as comfortable joking about the last five years: she’d always known her father and sister were alive.

They’d thought she was dead. Of course they wouldn’t have thought it a blessing, in any capacity. 

“Sorry,” Sara said.

“It’s fine,” her father said, a little too quickly. “Oh, and your mother knows. She’s on her way here right now.”

On her way? She wasn’t already with Quentin? Sara leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes. She had a lot to catch up on, and by the sound of it not all of it would be as enjoyable as seeing her family again.

* * *

 Her first attempt at a night out went terribly. Sara always enjoyed parties. Her family could attest to that, the sheer number of mornings they’d found her hungover, or found her bed unslept in.

It was easy to arrange one. She still had a few friends in Starling City, and everyone wanted to hear the story of her time away. She wasn’t comfortable sharing every detail, but she could come up with enough to entertain a drinking crowd.

She managed to survive a couple of minutes. Then the music had grown too deafening, the flashing lights too unnerving, the mass of people unsettling.

Making her excuses, she ducked outside. Supporting herself with one hand against the wall, she gasped for breath.

“Well hello there,” a voice that instinctively made Sara’s flesh crawl. She tilted her head: saw a stranger approaching. Scruffily shaven, lecherous eyes, and a disturbingly fixated gaze.

Sara shifted. She knew his type. Predator, creep: she’d thought the city would be safer than the island.

She gasped for breath again, still readjusting. Her head still ached from how it had been inside the club; she heard the stranger chuckle.

Ah, that was it. He thought she was high, or drunk; a target.

A surge of anger rushed through her, the moment she felt his hand on her shoulder. She might be unused to life back in the city, but her memory was perfectly fine when it came to how to deal with attackers.

A spinning kick. A foot _there_ , a knee just _there_ , a hand _there_ and to finish…

There was a snap, and the stranger crumpled to the ground. Sara blinked, her automatic response quickly being overwhelmed by the part of her mind that knew she was back in the city.

She took a step back. The man lay, still, on the floor of the alley. He wasn’t moving: Sara doubted he ever would again.

Another step back. Damn it. She was so used to doing what she had to. For years, the only possible reaction to a stranger like that had been to kill.

There was no excuse here.

She turned and hurried back into the club. No one had seen, there were no cameras: it couldn’t be traced back to her.

Just another mystery murder in Starling City. She’d heard enough from her father to know there were enough of those: and if the guy was the kind of creep she thought he was, she doubted the police would be too interested in exacting revenge on his behalf.

Something in her mind reacted to that.

Unsolved murders: criminals free. People like that wandering the city.

It made her angry. Before, she’d not really paid much attention to it. Still, she had a lawyer for a sister and a cop for a father: apparently some degree of care for the law was in her blood.

She’d expected home to be better than the island. After so many years, she’d romanticized it. And here it was, in all its gritty glory.

Part of her was mad at that, unfairly blaming the world for not being perfect. A further part, however, wanted to do something about it.

* * *

 She didn’t, at first.

It was a few days. Sara wasn’t working: she’d been paid a fairly hefty sum in compensation upon her return, and everyone accepted she needed to get back on her feet.

While she got used to everything, she spent most of her time at home. Partying had lost its appeal. She got her entertainment from pestering her sister.

Laurel gave an annoyed grunt, stretching her arms above her head, and glaring at some papers as though sheer force of will could alter the facts within them.

“Am I that bad?” Sara said.

“What?” Laurel said. “Huh? Oh, right. No, no, it’s not you. It’s just… this.”

“This?”

“Long story,” she said.

“I’m here,” Sara said. “Maybe putting it into words will help?”

“I doubt it,” Laurel said. She sighed, but nonetheless continued: “Renee, client has a stalker. He’s violated the restraining order dozens of times, but there’s never any evidence. He has friends who’ll lie for him, and she’s got a… history, so she’s not technically credible, but…”

“He’s guilty, but there’s no proof?” Sara said.

“Pretty much,” Laurel said. “Our investigator found solid evidence he’s guilty, but from how it was found it’s inadmissible, and there’s nothing else we could use.”

“No other leads?”

“We’ve tried every route,” Laurel said. “There isn’t anything else we could try. Short of a miracle…”

Sara slept on the rug in Laurel’s study. Her family had protested: but as she’d put it, she’d slept on dirt for the last five years. A rug was more comfortable than a mattress to her.

It also meant, when night came, she could stand up, and peer through Laurel’s notes and case files, until she found the one Laurel had mentioned. She quickly found and memorized the address.

* * *

 The next day, Sara worked out her disguise. She went on a shopping splurge, picking up a variety of clothes. Along with more commonplace garments, she picked out a few items she fancied throwing together.

Lots of leather. It seemed somehow fitting: she was particularly proud of the jacket. If nothing else, she liked the pockets. A crime-fighting costume needed to be practical.

When she passed a wig shop, it struck her that she should go inside. Her face had been on the news for days: any feature, like her hair, might be recognizable. If she was going to go vigilante, she knew she had to be careful.

A mask later, and she was done. Her vigilante outfit was buried at the bottom of the bags. When she got home, she unpacked everything into her wardrobe, the leather hidden in plain sight among her regular clothes. The wig box was discarded, while the wig was stored in a small hidey-hole she was fairly sure her father and Laurel didn’t know about.

It still had alcohol in, from when she’d used to use it. While the gap was too small to hold much, it was enough.

When night came, instead of getting changed for bed, she slipped into her leather jacket and wig and climbed silently out of the window.

It worried her a little, how much more comfortable it was to stalk rooftops and run, than it was to make small talk and walk happily down the street.

Since when had she grown accustomed to being in danger?

Stupid question. She knew the answer. Still, it bothered her.

Those thoughts she put aside. Instead she found the address she’d memorized. She staked it out for a few minutes, before recognizing the stalker through the window. His photo had been with the file.

What now?

She decided to let her instinct take over again. It was better suited to situations like this.

In one fluid movement, she ran at the window, barrelled through, and tackled the man to the ground. The shattering glass stung slightly, but did little real damage, especially not compared to what the force of her charge did to the stalker.

She hit him, paused, and hit him again.

“You won’t go near Renee,” Sara said, dropping her voice to an unrecognizable, low tone: “Do you hear me?”

“Wh-what?” he was shaking.

She hit him once more. He cried out, arm desperately trying to grab something: she pinned his wrist to the floor. Something cracked.

“I’ll know if you go near Renee,” Sara said. “You don’t want to see me again, do you?”

“I-”

“Tell me you won’t go near her,” Sara said. “Promise me you’ll be out of her life, completely.”

“I-” he looked up at her, still shaking. She just glared. “I-I- I promise. Just, please-”

She stood up, releasing him. As he tried to stand, she kicked him back down to the floor: cowed, he stayed there, trembling.

“Who- who are you?”

Sara stared down contemptuously, and paused. Well, if she was going to make a habit of this kind of thing…

“I’m the justice you can’t run from,” she said.

She kicked him once more, sending him sprawling out cold, before turning and leaping back onto the streets.

* * *

 She didn’t get to sleep until late, adrenaline running through her. She’d stopped a few muggings and worse on the way back, unable to stop once she’d started. Her fighting skills were far above the level of the typical street thug, after five years.

By the time she’d stopped being so buzzed, the Sun was already starting to rise. She snuck inside, hid her outfit, and played her exhaustion off as typical Sara-ness.

“Leave me alone,” she groaned, as Quentin tried to get her to come for breakfast. “It’s night somewhere.”

She’d probably need to work out a better schedule, and balance sleep and vigilante-ing, if she was going to keep doing this.

* * *

 The three Lances ate dinner together. Quentin seemed somewhat perturbed: moreso than usual, at least. He’d been distracted ever since he’d gotten home.

“What is it, dad?” Laurel said.

“Rash of reportings,” Quentin said, “Nothing that interesting. Just sounds as though there’s a vigilante in the city.”

“Vigilante?” Sara said.

“Last night, several assaults were attributed to one particular person in a… distinctive outfit,” he said. “Someone taking the law into their own hands.”

“Woman in leather, right?” Laurel said.

Quentin glanced towards her.

“Case I was working on,” Laurel said, “She went after a stalker of a client of mine: scared him off. I’m not exactly unhappy.”

“Sounds like she’s been helpful,” Sara said.

“Maybe,” her father said, making an expression of distaste. “Can never tell with vigilantes.”

“You don’t approve?” Sara said.

“I don’t know her,” her father said, “But there are plenty of ways she could be making a difference. Instead she chose to go around the law. It’s hard to trust that kind of person.”

Sara glanced across at Laurel. The law hadn’t been too helpful with her client: it was hard not to wonder how her sister would react. Still, Laurel didn’t say anything.

“Besides,” their father said, “Everyone deserves a trial. I doubt someone running down the street can’t know all the details of any crime: no way to know who it is they’re targeting. I know everyone seems to think vigilantes are cool, or whatever, but life’s rarely that simple. And don’t even get me started on reasonable force.”

“So, you going to catch her?” Sara said. Quentin shrugged.

“Probably not me personally,” he said, “But we’ll try.”

* * *

 Sara couldn’t exactly say she was overjoyed by her father’s reaction. Then again, she hadn’t expected much different.

She was too used to lawlessness: and the fact was, the law didn’t seem to be quite going far enough. That made this necessary. And besides, it helped her.

Five years in hell. Somehow, not being in danger had ended up being unbearable.

Still, it was a little more reluctantly that she donned her outfit that night. Once she was out however, and fighting, she lost any regret.

Her father didn’t know, so it couldn’t hurt him. She didn’t hurt anyone that didn’t deserve it. Certainly, maybe her standards of reasonable force were a bit different after the island, but that didn’t concern her.

Some days she stayed in and slept. Sometimes, though, she skimmed through Laurel’s case files: found examples of criminals that seemed like they kept getting away with it.

Those, Sara took care of before anything else.

It made dinners slightly more interesting, if nothing else. With the sheer number of clients Laurel had who were thankful to the vigilante in leather and a blonde wig, Laurel herself had her opinion softening. Quentin, however, had no such soft spot.

“But, ultimately, isn’t she doing good?” Laurel said. “Sure, maybe she goes a little far sometimes, but look at the lives she’s improved.”

“A _little_?” Quentin said. “Last I checked not everything deserves the death penalty.”

“She doesn’t kill everyone,” Laurel said.

“But she does sometimes,” Quentin said.

“Could be self-defence,” Laurel said. “If she lets some live and not others, might just be down to how much of a fight they put up. Not always going to be down to what they did.”

“Self-defence after a fight she started,” Quentin said. “Besides, there are other dangers from vigilantes.”

“Maybe,” Laurel said: shrugged. “Still, if you catch her, I can promise you’ll have lawyers lining up around the block to represent her. A lot of people see her as a hero.”

Sara ate in silence. Laurel glanced to her, to see if she wanted to speak: Sara shrugged. It was entertaining enough to watch.

“She’d not the only costumed weirdo in town though, you know,” Quentin said. “Her being a hero might not be such a good thing, if it attracts more of the same crowd.”

“I haven’t heard of anyone else,” Sara said, joining in.

“You wouldn’t,” Quentin said. “The other vigilante isn’t exactly much of a do-gooder. Popped up a few days ago, only had a few sightings, and he’s killed someone every time.”

Another vigilante? That might not be a bad thing. More people could only help improve the streets. Still, it was hard not to be a little unnerved by how her father’s tone darkened.

Then again, he spoke the same way about her. Sara still wasn’t exactly happy with how her father seemed to view her activities, but she’d made her peace: and it meant this vigilante might be better than he suggested.

If they were a vigilante. If they were just killing people, they might be no more than a serial killer.

Sara grimaced: she could see why there was such mistrust of vigilantes. Too much similarity to much less savoury people.

“Know anything about him?” Sara said.

“What, you interested in this now?” her father said.

“Always have been,” Sara said: flashed a smile. “It was just far too entertaining watching you two get into it.”

Laurel smiled: her father chuckled ruefully.

“Yeah,” he said. “But not, we don’t know too much. Haven’t been that many sightings: he’s good at keeping hidden. Only description’s that he wears black, and uses a bow and arrow of all things.”

A dark archer. Huh. That was new.


	2. The Dark Archer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to confirm, this story is taking place over the same timescale as S1 of the series. There are a few changes from the effects the swap, but for the most part it'll be covering S1.

Sara did what she could to pursue this new vigilante. As her father had said, they were good. They left very little evidence of their presence, and the few eyewitnesses had done little more than glimpse the black outfit.

Still, Sara had heard enough to know she needed to step up.

She remembered being on the island, when she’d been training with Shado and Slade. Shado had been insistent that she learn how to use a bow and arrow, but that had never kept her interest. She’d liked the look of Slade’s dual-swords much more.

Slade, of course, had found that hilarious, and had teased Shado about it for days. He wouldn’t lend them, but she’d improvised: she’d snapped a long branch in two, and learnt from both of them. Fighting with a pole came more easily to her.

Now she was back in the city, there was no reason for her to limit herself to hands and feet, and she could probably afford to go a bit higher budget than a tree branch.

There were all manner of martial arts stores in Starling City. Not all of them were above board: plenty made most of their money by selling to the criminal gangs that operated in the Glades.

Laurel had documents going over several that were suspected of selling weapons (both legal and illegal). Sara didn’t feel guilty for stealing from them, and leaving the owners for the police to find, all the contraband readily exposed.

Armed with a shiny new bo-staff, she went to work.

She examined crime scenes, tried to figure out connections between the vigilante’s victims: and stalked the rooftops in case she’d run into the dark archer by sheer chance.

Her lucky break came in the daytime, surprisingly. Information could be just as potent as a staff: she read a little of the background of all the victims. There was no way she could remember every name that popped up, but one in particular did stand out to her.

They all shared a common associate. They likely shared several, but only one stood out to Sara.

In a way, it was lucky. She’d be able to go as Sara, rather than the vigilante. Besides, she’d wanted to visit the Queen family again.

* * *

Guilt had stopped her, before. As far as everyone was concerned, it was sheer luck that she survived and Oliver didn’t.

They didn’t know what had happened on the island. Oliver had been there for maybe a couple of months, before being swept off the Amazo by a wild current. He had to have drowned.

She was welcomed into the Queen mansion. Apparently they were expecting her.

She stood still, just past the door. She didn’t want to wander: Oliver’s face was everywhere. Sara could barely stand to turn her head. No matter where she looked, he was smiling out at her.

She wanted to hit something. Shatter the picture frames, tear up the photos. It was easier to lash out than bear his eyes on her.

“Why are _you_ here?” a voice from just beyond a doorway said.

Sara turned. It took her a few seconds to place the face.

“Thea, isn’t it?” she said. “I just came to see how-”

“It should have been you,” Thea said. Her voice shook, just slightly.

“I’m-”

“You should have died,” Thea said. “Not him. Why didn’t you-”

“Thea,” a new voice said, sternly.

At the top of the stairs stood Moira Queen. She was far more recognizable to Sara: Thea had changed a lot over the past five years, but Moira was the same as ever.

Moira descended. Thea rolled her eyes:

“Like I was the only one thinking it,” Thea said. She left quickly.

So much of Thea’s manner could have been read as typical sullenness. Sara knew better, though: she was hurting. More than a few of her old friends had mentioned seeing Thea Queen with a few of the less reputable dealers.

Sara paused where she was. She knew how that felt; the alcohol, the drugs. She’d never had too much pain to dampen, not before, and not compared to Thea, but she knew a little of how it felt.

As such, part of her wanted to follow Thea. Part of her knew also, however, it was pointless. Thea wouldn’t listen to her. Thea held her responsible: and Sara couldn’t entirely blame her.

She hated to do nothing, but she couldn’t be everyone’s hero.

“Sara,” Moira said: she offered her hand to Sara. “I expected you’d visit. You’ll have to forgive Thea, she took it hard when Oliver… Your return’s a reminder for us all. Not that we’re not glad to hear you’re alive.”

“Thank you,” Sara said. “I wanted to visit sooner, I just wasn’t sure…”

“You’re welcome here,” Moira said. “Your whole family is. I don’t know how much you know of what happened when you were gone, but…”

“My father blamed your family for what happened to me,” Sara said. “I heard.”

“Yes, well,” Moira said: she paused. “If Oliver were here, I’m sure he’d be sorry. We can only try to recover.”

Politics. Sara remembered that about Moira: it wasn’t that she was a liar, she just preferred to act as though things were a little more convenient than they were.

The Oliver of five years ago almost definitely wouldn’t be sorry. He’d been dating Sara’s sister, and nonetheless asked her to go on the cruise. He certainly wouldn’t have taken responsibility for her ending up on the island.

“I’m just glad it was me, rather than Laurel,” Sara said.

“Of course,” Moira said: paused. “Is this a purely social call, or-”

“Actually, I did need an excuse to come,” Sara said. “I mean what I said: I’ve wanted to come by for a while, I just needed a… push. I’m helping my family, there have been a few deaths in the city caused by the same perpetrator.”

“I’ve heard a little,” Moira said. “Why come here?”

“It might be nothing,” Sara said, “I was just looking at their history, and the Queen family name popped up a lot. It might just be because I recognized it, but…”

“But we could be the next target,” Moira said, slowly.

“Or you could know something,” Sara said, hurriedly. “I’m sure you’re safe.”

“One can only hope,” Moira said: paused. “What were the names?”

Sara paused. She’d done what she could to learn them.

“Adam Hunt,” Sara said, “Leo Mueller, James Holder, Cyrus Vanch, Warren Patel, uh, Martin Somers…”

Something flickered across Moira’s face. Sara paused.

“Is anything-”

“No,” Moira said. “I’m sorry, I think you’ve had a wasted journey. I only know a few of those people, there’s no connection I can think of.”

Something was off.

“You’re sure?” Sara said.

“Quite sure,” Moira said. She smiled.

It seemed sincere, as did her words. Then again, Moira had always been a good actor.

“I’ll report back,” Sara said. “Bye, then. Sorry I wasted your time.”

Moira said goodbye, and Sara turned to leave. The moment Moira left the room however, Sara slowed.

She opened the door, and shut it again without going though. Quickly glancing around, to make sure no one was watching her, she shifted into vigilante mode. Each footstep silent, she followed Moira Queen.

Moira went straight to her office, and dialled her phone. Sara stayed just outside, beyond the door. She couldn’t see what was happening, but she could hear.

“Malcolm?” Moira said. “It’s me. We need to talk. Someone’s targeting the people on-”

A creak from upstairs. At the sound of footsteps from Moira, Sara immediately fled, ducking into one of the many side rooms in the Queen household.

Eavesdropping was dangerous if she couldn’t be certain where Moira was going to be. With Thea making noise upstairs, Moira would be leaving her office, whether to find a quieter spot or to ask her daughter to be quiet.

Besides, Sara had what she needed. Malcolm?

Sara found the nearest window, opened it, and slipped outside. She had somewhere to start, at least.

* * *

There was only one Malcolm with an obvious connection to the Queen family. Malcolm Merlyn. Laurel knew his son: still, Sara felt this meeting would be better made as the vigilante, than as Sara Lance.

There was clearly some secret connection between the victims, and the Queens, and Merlyn. By virtue of being a secret, it might take a little more than a kind word to figure it out.

Sara slipped into her leather jacket, and brought her staff with her.

It was a comparatively easy matter to sneak into his house. It was easier still to locate him.

“Malcolm Merlyn,” she said, dropping her voice an octave.

He span around on the spot. He didn’t look at her with fear. There was a confidence in his manner. It was slightly disconcerting: still, his brow furrowed.

“You must be the vigilante I’ve heard so much about,” he said. “What brings you to me?”

“I want information,” Sara said. “The murders. You know the connection between the victims.”

“Do I?” he said: paused. “I’m sorry, you seem to have me at a disadvantage. What should I call you?”

“You don’t need to call me anything,” she said. “Just tell me.”

A pause. Merlyn regarded her, somewhat warily. She couldn’t quite work out what was going on behind his eyes.

“Your life may be in danger,” Sara said. “I know you recognize the victims’ names, and I know Moira Queen called you about them. If you don’t want to go to the police, then tell me. I can do something about it.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Merlyn said.

“Why is that?” Sara said. “You have a connection to-”

“Perhaps,” Merlyn said. “But I think you’ll find I’m not so easy to kill.”

As in on cue, an arrow struck the window behind him. There was the sound of shattering glass. Merlyn reacted with surprising speed, turning on the spot.

He was maybe half a second too late. The only time he had to save himself was the time it took from the arrow to cross the short distance from the window to his chest: far too short a time.

Malcolm Merlyn slumped forward, body twisted in his half-turn, an arrow sticking out of his back.

Sara immediately hurried to the window. She stared outside, and caught only the slightest glimpse of the dark archer.

A stranger in black garb, on a distant rooftop. They lowered their arrow, and for a brief instant their eyes met Sara’s.

Rapidly, they turned and hurried away.

They were too far away for Sara to follow. She could only watch the archer leave.

* * *

Just as quickly as she’d found a lead, she’d lost it. Frustrating was too mild a word.

Still, she managed to take out her frustrations on several unfortunate drug dealers. Her father would probably have a field day adding more to the list of charges to be levelled at the vigilante, but that wasn’t too high on her mind.

She had a bed at last. Laurel still used her room as a study, with no more space in the house for the filing cabinets, but Sara had half of it to herself.

It gave her a good place to just lie back and relax. The mattress still felt heavenly.

It was also a good place to dwell. Even with her sister working away in the corner, Sara found it easy to relax there.

“Thank you,” Laurel said.

“Hm?” Sara said, after a moment.

She shifted, drifting out of her reverie.

“I was thinking,” Laurel said, “The vigilante. She’s been a lot of help.”

“What?” Sara said: “Oh, right. Your cases. You said.”

“Yeah,” Laurel said. “My cases. I’ve asked around: she deals with a lot of street level crime, and there’s some overlap. Most of the people at CNRI are grateful to her. She’s helped with one or two of everyone’s cases.”

Sara smiled to herself. No one minded a little ego-stroking. Maybe she could consider putting in a costumed appearance down there.

“Funny thing,” Laurel continued, “The vigilante’s tied to one or two of the cases of any other lawyer at the firm. She’s helped with over half of mine. No one else has been helped that much.”

Sara paused: blinked.

She hadn’t thought about how things like that would seem. Stupid, really. Still, it didn’t mean too much.

“Quite a coincidence,” Sara said. She smiled playfully: “Maybe you have a fan.”

“Mm,” Laurel said. She still sat facing her desk, reading a file. “You know what else is interesting?”

“What?”

“I only bring some cases home with me,” Laurel said. “Only the more involved ones. And of the cases I don’t bring back, barely any are helped along by the vigilante.”

Ah.

“What are you saying?” Sara said, cautiously.

“Nothing,” Laurel said, after a moment. She smiled. “Just thought it was interesting.”

* * *

That night, one file in particular was left open on Laurel’s desk. Sara skimmed though it, finding the address.

She debated what to do as she dressed up. On one hand, this would be tantamount to confirming who she was to Laurel. It wasn’t much of a secret identity if she told someone, and it wasn’t fair to ask Laurel to keep her secret.

On the other hand, Laurel seemed willing, and she doubted her sister would tell anyone. Besides, there was no reason to let a criminal go free, just to briefly allay Laurel’s suspicions. Her sister was smart, she’d figure it out anyway.

With new purpose, Sara went to work.

* * *

“Have a good day at CNRI?” Sara said, the next afternoon when Laurel returned.

“Very,” Laurel said: she smiled across to Sara. “Thank you.”

* * *

Dumb luck afforded Sara her next break. She’d taken care of another name in Laurel’s files when she caught sight of someone else on the rooftops.

They were near an abandoned clock-tower. It was a location Sara had considered making a secret base, if the time came she couldn’t hide all her supplies in her room.

Her collapsible staff just fit, if wedged diagonally, into her hidey-hole. Anything else too sizeable and she’d need to consider a base elsewhere. The clock-tower was a good possibility.

Apparently another vigilante had the same thought.

Sara didn’t move: she stayed pressed to a wall, watching the figure in the distance. She had no doubt he’d be able to notice someone following him. If she merely watched, however, it’d let her confirm where he was heading.

As Sara suspected, he went straight for the clock-tower.

She’d decided to count this vigilante as a threat. What he did was little more than assassination: it didn’t help anyone, as far as she could see. An assortment of one-percenters and thieves, with no connection except a tenuous link to the Queens, all killed with no warning.

Sara snuck closer to the clock-tower. Taking care to be silent, she ascended-

And found herself sent reeling to the floor. She quickly righted herself, reaching back for her staff, and swinging it. The dark archer swiftly dropped his bow, and unsheathed a pair of blades.

Who the hell needed that many weapons?!

It was hard to see any detail in the darkness of the clock-tower. They duelled, only occasionally entering into the light that shone through the clock face, and even then they were illuminated for scant seconds.

Sara stayed close, wielding her staff as best she could. She’d never had a chance to go all out since returning to the City.

She might’ve been a little rusty, but she couldn’t afford to be. This stranger had no qualms about killing.

She only managed glimpses of the stranger. A quiver on his back, sheathes at his waist, and the occasional pad of armour. Clearly he was prepared for battle.

Still, something was off. She wished the other vigilante would slow down for a second: give her a chance to just look at him. His body seemed odd.

Instead, the vigilante fought back with astonishing speed. He didn’t speak, apparently deciding that the very fact Sara had found his hiding place made her a threat.

“Why did you kill them?” Sara said, ducking and thrusting back.

Despite herself, she was almost enjoying this. As much as she hated the fact, she did enjoy the rush of adrenaline that came from this. It was why she went out to the streets almost every night.

This stranger pushed her to her limits.

How long had they been fighting? Sara swung her pole again, gasping an exhausted breath-

And the stranger lifted his other hand, deflecting the pole and striking Sara with the hilt of the sword.

Sara stumbled back, desperately trying to right herself. All it took was one moment, however: she faltered, made herself vulnerable, and now her foe wouldn’t let her recover.

A kick, and Sara’s staff went clattering to the floor. Sara tried what she could bare-handed, but the hilt again struck her chest. She gasp for breath, wincing at the feeling. Something was definitely broken.

Another kick, and Sara went sprawling back. She scrambled, desperately, but could barely move, much less stand: much less fight.

She’d made it to the area below the clock face. The moonlight shone through, illuminating her face. As the vigilante stepped closer, Sara got a closer look at them.

“Who- who are you?” Sara said. Her voice was hoarse: strained. She could barely breathe.

The vigilante lifted their sword. There was a glimmer of something in their eyes. After a moment, they sheathed it again, and lifted one hand to the fabric covering their face.

“I am Nyssa al Ghul,” she said, lowering it. “Heir to the demon. Do not get in my way again. Do you understand?”

Sara struggled on the floor. Nyssa’s hand returned warningly to her sword.

“I said: do you understand?”

“Y-yes,” Sara said. She inhaled, and groaned: “Why?”

Nyssa raised her eyebrows.

“You lie at my mercy, and you ask me a question?” Nyssa said.

She might have been annoyed, or she might have been impressed. Either way, her hand left her sword.

“Why have I spared you?” Nyssa said, “Or why did I kill those people?”

Sara groaned.

“A promise to a friend,” Nyssa said, before Sara could manage to respond. “Do not try to find me again.”

Nyssa picked up her bow, strapping it to her back. She still moved with surprising speed, though Sara couldn’t imagine how she wasn’t exhausted after their duel.

Quickly, she lifted Sara’s staff. She weighed it in her hands for a second, before returning it to Sara’s hand. Before Sara could say anything however, Nyssa had left, hurriedly leaping up some scaffolding.

It was a long few moments before Sara realized she wasn’t sure which question Nyssa had answered.

* * *

Sara couldn’t say how long she lay there. No one came to the clock-tower: no one to help or hurt her.

Every part of her ached. A lot of it was sheer exhaustion, from the fight. That, and Nyssa was hardly gentle. Sara felt certain at least one rib was broken, and her right wrist screamed at her.

Slowly, Sara gathered the willpower to shift.

She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she had to go somewhere. She couldn’t just lay in the tower, as tempting as that was.

Every centimetre was an effort of will. She pushed herself, slowly crawling. She sighed in relief when she reached the staircase: then paused.

It was easier to move with gravity. Then again, this wouldn’t be pleasant. Sara exhaled. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and pushed herself just a little bit further.

She cried out as she slid down the stairs, the sharp ends digging into her back. Still, she’d been through far worse.

As soon as her feet hit the floor, she tensed, stopping herself in an instant. Her ankles protested, but it barely compared to the ache in her back. Using her new position, Sara pushed herself up until she was on her feet at last.

She stumbled for a moment, left hand reaching out; pressing against the wall to support herself. She gasped for breath.

Then, slowly, she began to move.

She staggered, using her staff as a crutch, ending up outside.

She saw a few people, but they scattered. From a distance, perhaps she didn’t seem injured: she was simply walking along, albeit with one arm across her chest, and another resting her entire weight on a staff.

They just saw the vigilante. They ran, and she was able to walk.

She somehow made it home. She couldn’t say how, beyond pure willpower. Every muscle in her body had given up several minutes ago.

But she didn’t want her family to wake up and have her not be home, again. They’d been through that enough.

Her legs gave up just outside the door. Sara pushed her staff just a little further forward, tapping the bottom of the door.

She had nothing else she could do. As soon as she fell, she knew she couldn’t get up again. She didn’t have a key, and she doubted her hands were nimble enough to use it if she did. They ached from the cold.

There was no way she could get back through her window like this.

The door opened. She heard her father’s voice, a curse, and heard the click of a gun.

“I need… your help,” Sara croaked.

“Yeah?” Quentin said. “And why would I help you?”

Sara shifted. She braced one arm against the ground, trying to push herself up, to look up. She saw her father, looking down at her with a mix of fear and anger.

“Don’t move!” he said. “I know who you are. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t just shoot you right now.”

He was bluffing, she knew that. He was a good cop: he was just ensuring she wasn’t pulling anything, keeping her still so he could be ready to call this in.

Sara moved slowly under her father’s watchful, mistrustful eyes. Supporting her weight on her elbow now, she hooked two fingers around her wig. She tugged it, and her eye-mask came with it.

“Because you’d never hurt me,” Sara said.

She saw her father drop his gun, before her arm gave way and she collapsed. She lost consciousness before her head hit the floor.

* * *

Sara awoke in her own bed. She ached too much to move, but somehow she still found the strength to turn her head.

Laurel’s filing cabinets were open, and emptied. Apparently her father had moved the documents to another room. He didn’t want Laurel coming in.

Quentin was sat by her bedside. He was slumped, asleep, and daylight was streaming in through the window.

She was still in her leather outfit. No wonder he didn’t want Laurel to see. She shifted, and groaned as her muscles protested.

Quentin reacted to the sound. He jumped awake, blinking. It took him a few seconds to remember everything, and he looked down at his daughter.

She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She doubted even he could.

Anger at the vigilante: love for his daughter. Fear mixed with hate mixed with distrust mixed with affection. Conflict. He was a cop, through and through: he could never be convinced to not report a crime. He was also a father, and would never be convinced to hurt his family.

“Sara,” he said, hoarsely. “I couldn’t- You’ll need to go to hospital to get fully checked out. I don’t know everything that’s happened, but…”

“Don’t worry,” Sara said. “I’ve had worse.”

“I doubt-”

“Trust me,” she said.

She met his eyes. Both of them felt silent.

“So,” Quentin said, flatly. “You’re… her.”

“Yeah,” Sara said.

She hadn’t meant him to find out like this. She wasn’t entirely sure she’d ever meant him to find out, honestly.

Curiously, she shifted her right arm. There was a pang from her wrist, but it was distinctly muted. Sprained, not broken, then.

“Can I ask-” her father said: paused. “Why would- What happened- I can’t-”

He fell silent, apparently unsure of what to say. His expression flicked between countless moods.

“I know you don’t approve,” Sara said. “I don’t expect you to lie for me. I didn’t mean to put you in this position, I just… I needed help. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for asking for help,” Quentin said. “I wouldn’t let you- No matter what. I just…”

“A lot to cope with,” Sara said. She chuckled, then winced.

Quite an understatement. Sara shifted, until she was facing the ceiling. It was easier than seeing her father’s unhappiness.

“I’m not going to stop,” Sara said, “In case you were going to try to talk me out of it. I know you don’t like vigilantes, but-”

“You think this is because you’re the vigilante?” her father said.

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” he said: paused. “Yes. Partly. Look, I’m not exactly thrilled you’re out beating on and killing people, but- We worry about vigilantes because we can’t trust them. No accountability, no law: but I trust you. I know you’ve got a reason, even if you go farther than…”

Quentin paused. He swallowed.

“But you’re putting yourself out there every night. Like tonight. I don’t even want to know what happened, but you almost- If you’d been a little later, or a little unluckier, you wouldn’t be here.”

Sara closed her eyes. She couldn’t say it wasn’t something that worried her: the possibility she’d be ambushed, or face a better fighter, or too large a group.

The possibility Sara Lance would vanish, and her family would barely know why, just like before.

“I know,” Sara said, softer.

“And you still want to…” Quentin said.

“Like you want to go out during the day and go after criminals,” Sara said. “There’s always the chance you… or I wouldn’t come back. And I can’t imagine what that would be like for you. For Laurel. For me. But I know you can survive it if it’s me, like you did the first time.”

“We survived it to know we never want it to happen again,” Quentin said.

“And I’ll do my best,” Sara said. “But I’m helping this city.”

“Helping, right,” he said: he sighed, and slumped back. “Like a damn canary.”

“Huh?”

“You know, the cliché,” Quentin said. “Canary in a coal mine. It kept the workers safe, because the moment they were in danger, it died. Helping them by dying. I just- I don’t want that to be you. You deserve better, to live-”

“So does everyone else,” Sara said, “The people I help. I’ll risk my life if that’s what it takes.”

Her father looked away. She understood, at least. He’d already thought he’d lost her, now he knew it might happen again.

And she felt that he understood. He did the same, in his way. Every day there was a chance he wouldn’t come back, but he kept being a cop. He could hardly criticize her for doing the same.

“This was a one-off,” Sara said. “Hopefully. And probably. You don’t need to worry. The archer you mentioned, she’s had training: more than your typical crook.”

“The archer?” Quentin said. He seemed momentarily surprised.

“What, you think I wouldn’t try to help you?” she said. “Been helping Laurel too.”

The silence dragged on. They spent as much time not speaking as they did speaking, both struggling to find the words.

“Just- stay safe, ok?” Quentin said.

“Of course,” Sara said. She flashed a smile, tensing as she tried not to wince.

Another pause. Quentin seemed to have nothing more to say, but he also didn’t want to leave his daughter’s bedside.

“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” he said, softer. “Not again, not for any reason. I can’t go through that.”

Sara didn’t know what to say. It was rare her father spoke so openly: that his voice sounded so raw.

After a few moments, Sara tilted her head. She scanned the room, more awake now and better able to take in what she saw. There was a change of clothes at the foot of her bed: presumably for when she felt better able to move.

Quentin was probably worried about Laurel walking in on her like this. Sara wasn’t too concerned. If her father knew, she might as well tell Laurel: she was all but certain Laurel had figured it out, anyway. They just didn’t talk about it.

“So,” Sara said contemplatively, prolonging the syllable: “Like a canary huh? I’ve always liked canaries.”

* * *

Quentin did leave eventually. Sara got changed, folding her outfit over the foot of her bed. Wearily, she returned to lying down, muscles already protesting at the minor exertion.

Laurel returned to her room that evening, as well. Sara had suggested her father return all the files: there was no need for this to impact Laurel’s work too.

“Hey sis,” Sara said, once Laurel had sat down. Her voice still cracked slightly.

“You ok?” Laurel said. She turned, uncertain.

“Rough night,” Sara said.

Laurel’s eyes wandered, taking in the leather costume topped with the distinctive white wig. Her eyes widened just slightly.

“So I see,” she said. “Did-”

Laurel looked back towards her files, a flicker of guilt in her expression. She’d been the one suggesting, albeit implicitly, that the vigilante pay a visit to a certain few criminals.

And now…

“No,” Sara said, “Nothing to do with you.”

Laurel still didn’t seem entirely persuaded.

“I didn’t think it was you,” Laurel said, quickly. “I thought you just knew her, knew who she was. I didn’t think you were actually…”

“Should I be insulted?” Sara said.

Laurel chuckled, relieved.

“Thank you, anyway,” Laurel said. “And- I guess dad knows now.”

“Unmasked in front of him,” Sara said. “I think it gave him a hint.”

“Bet he was pleased.”

“It went better than it could have,” Sara said. “Honestly I think he’s just glad my fight didn’t go worse. I guess we’ll see.”

* * *

Two days more, and Sara was walking around. She wasn’t quite at full strength, but she was just about ready to start playing vigilante again.

Meanwhile, the murders attributed to the dark archer had all but dried up. There were a couple more, but since Malcolm Merlyn she seemed to have achieved whatever it was she’d set out to do.

It was an evening when Laurel was working late at CNRI, that there was a knock at the door. Sara lowered the volume on the TV as Quentin went to answer.

“Hello, Mr Lance?”

Sara stiffened as soon as she heard the voice at the door. Quickly, she turned the TV off, vaulting over the back of the sofa and grunting just slightly at the strain.

She left the room just in time to see her father shaking hands with a woman.

“Nyssa Raatko,” the almost-stranger said, by way of introduction. “May I come in?”

“Can I ask what this is about?” Quentin said.

“Seconded,” Sara said, meeting Nyssa’s eyes warningly.

An odd smile played at Nyssa’s lips, and she held Sara’s gaze for a long few seconds. Quentin frowned, glancing back at his daughter, as though to chastise her for being rude.

Still, Nyssa hadn’t come armed: at least as far as Sara could tell. There weren’t many weapons she could hide in her dress. That didn’t make Sara feel particularly safe.

“A message,” Nyssa said. “I’m here on behalf of Oliver Queen.”

Sara froze, and Quentin stared. Nyssa paused for the briefest instant, to gauge their reactions, before continuing.

“I’m afraid he left this world a year ago,” she said.

“Five years-” Quentin said, the same moment Sara said ‘four.’ He frowned, while Sara gestured with her head to face Nyssa.

“One year,” she said. “He washed up in a place I had business. I can assure you that he survived for some years more.”

“Then why come here now?” Sara said. She still hadn’t broken eye contact.

“I had no opportunity,” Nyssa said. “Neither did he. My schedule is dictated by my business, and I had many more priorities. I had promised him that, if Sara Lance returned to Starling City, I would let her know. At my first opportunity, I came.”

“You said you had a message?” Sara said.

Her tone wasn’t curious: more, it was challenging. No doubt her father thought her rude. She could explain to him later; if, for whatever reason, the archer was here to make idle conversation, Sara wasn’t going to give her the illusion that she was welcome.

“He wanted you to know that he survived for a time longer,” Nyssa said. “And he wanted to apologize. He did not tell me much: I very much expect he planned to deliver it himself. Nonetheless, as he could not, I am here.”

“Really?” Sara said, “Is that the only reason you’re here?”

Another smirk played at Nyssa’s lips. She’d recognized Sara, Sara felt sure: there was a glimmer in her eyes as though she was enjoying this.

“Look,” Quentin said, interrupting, “I don’t mean to get in the way, but do you two know each other? You’ve been staring at each other like-”

“We’ve met,” Sara said, curtly.

“Once,” Nyssa said.

A pause. Quentin rolled his eyes, apparently just expecting to be baffled now.

“Would you mind if I spoke with your daughter alone, Mr Lance?” Nyssa said. “There are things I expect should only be aired in private.”

They went to Sara’s room not long after that. Her father shrugged, no doubt working on what he could do with that new piece of information.

Nyssa sat on Sara’s bed, making herself comfortable. Meanwhile, Sara stayed standing, guarded. There was still no reason to make Nyssa feel welcome.

“You fight well,” Nyssa said, amiably. “I was impressed. I don’t often say that.”

“You recognized me,” Sara said.

“Your face,” Nyssa said. “That mask covers very little of it. You should not be surprised.”

Nyssa tilted her head, absently regarding Sara. Her gaze was a little unnerving.

Sara still remembered fighting her: still ached from it. It didn’t seem to be a concern for Nyssa however.

“So why did you want to talk to me?” Sara said. She was as confrontational as before.

“To tell you the full story,” Nyssa said. “I am here as a matter of honour. If you do not want to hear, simply say and I will leave.”

“To talk?” Sara said, “That’s all?”

“It is.”

For a moment, Sara was silent. She contemplated; Nyssa didn’t exactly inspire trust, but Sara couldn’t see any sign of a lie. Besides, Nyssa had the opportunity to kill Sara. She’d chosen not to.

“Go on,” Sara said.

She moved, and sat down on Laurel’s chair. She didn’t turn it, facing Nyssa with her arms crossed over the chair back.

Nyssa nodded slowly, and smiled. She met Sara’s eyes.

“Are you familiar with the League of Assassins?” Nyssa said.

“I can guess,” Sara said. “Not exactly doing a great job of convincing me you only want to talk.”

“I have no quarrel with you,” Nyssa said. “I simply wish you to know where I am from: and where Al Sah-him hails from.”

“Who?”

“Oliver Queen,” Nyssa said. “Initiates to the League take on a second name. He was proficient at archery, and so that was the name he chose.”

“You knew him?” Sara said.

Sara’s voice softened. She had fairly fond memories of Oliver: though his behaviour might not have been great, neither was hers. It was long ago, regardless.

He’d been a friend: more than a friend.

“Somewhat,” Nyssa said. “I recognized his potential. I spent no especial time with him: he was one of many.”

“Then why-”

“I am the reason he died,” Nyssa said. “I am not sorry, but I do not glory in it.”

Nyssa paused: watched Sara’s reaction. When Sara did nothing, Nyssa continued. She spoke with a remarkable lack of passion.

“My father oft seeks to marry me to successful men in the League,” Nyssa said. “I have learnt to identify the ones he would suggest as a suitor. It is not wise to refuse him. I bore Al Sah-him no malice, but he was one such person, so I charged him to kill one of my father’s rivals before the engagement was made.”

“And?”

“And?” Nyssa said. After a moment, she realized what Sara was asking: “He did not survive. My father is Ra’s Al Ghul, the demon’s head. Anyone named his rival would not be so easily killed.”

“You killed him,” Sara said.

“Yes,” Nyssa said, “After a fashion, though Damien Darhk delivered the killing blow. We spoke, the evening before: that was when I first heard of you. I endeavour to honour the memory of those I send to their deaths in such a manner: it is through no flaw of their own that they fall. Al Sah-him asked two things, and allowed me to choose which I would fulfil.”

“To tell me,” Sara said. Nyssa shook her head.

“He had in his possession a list, given to him by his father,” Nyssa said. “He wished the people on it to die, and their goal to be prevented.”

The List? Sara dimly remembered that. She’d run into Oliver briefly on the island, when the Amazo had gone by. He’d been fascinated with a few blank pages, never letting them leave his side.

He’d been ecstatic when heat from a fire made writing appear on them. Was that what Nyssa was talking about?

“That’s what you were doing?” Sara said.

“It was,” Nyssa said. “There was an undertaking intended to do grievous harm to this city. We in the League have a code of honour: we do not support that kind of murder, without a reason. With Al Sa-Her’s death, it was prevented.”

“And then you came to me,” Sara said.

“And then _you_ came to _me_ ,” Nyssa said. “When we fought, and when I recognized you, I felt it was only right.”

“Why?”

“You fought well,” Nyssa said. “I respect that.”

She wore an unreadable, playful smile. Suddenly Sara felt self-conscious under Nyssa’s gaze, though she couldn’t say why.

“I was to leave Starling City a day ago,” Nyssa said. “I stayed.”

Something was different about Nyssa’s manner too. Sara hesitated.

“Why did you stay?”

“To speak with you,” Nyssa said. “My obligation to Al Sah-him is fulfilled: I am here by my own will. I wished to know you.”

Nyssa smiled. Sara found herself looking away.

“Please know that I bear you no ill will,” Nyssa said. “I will not hurt you. Should our paths cross, I would enjoy the opportunity to fight alongside you.”

It was hard to deny a thrill at the idea. Sara had enjoyed their encounter, if not the ending: the chance to exert herself was rare. She’d always liked adrenaline.

Despite herself, Sara was excited by the idea. Still, she schooled her expression, unwilling to banter with a murderer.

_But then_ , a traitorous voice in her mind whispered, _you’ve killed too_. And that was true: if she’d had the opportunity to hear about this Undertaking, she might well have killed the same people.

“Maybe,” Sara said.

She’d intended to sound discouraging: provide an incentive for Nyssa to leave Starling City. Instead, Nyssa smiled.

“That is all I ask,” Nyssa said, before standing. “I hope we do meet again.”


	3. Leavetaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last chapter. Sorry that this is only three chapters long: I've got an outline, complete with flashback-chapters and long plot progression, and much more fleshed out relationships and moments, but I have nowhere near the time required to write it. I don't want to be one of those writers that starts a story with an interesting idea, and who annoys everyone by leaving it unfinished.   
> There's the potential for more, a handful of plots from the show aren't brought up, but I don't have any immediate plans for writing it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story, and if you have time please let me know what you liked. If I do end up continuing, I'd like to know where to focus my efforts. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Sara wasn’t entirely sure what she thought of Nyssa. They’d met twice, and she’d come away with a completely different impression each time.

The first time, Nyssa had been a threat, and a mystery: the second, a possible friend (even if still a mystery). Sara had never expected to hear any tenderness from her.

Even confused, however, Sara knew Nyssa could be a threat. In a straight fight, she likely wouldn’t be able to win. At the very least, it would be close.

Somehow she’d stopped thinking of Nyssa as an enemy. That didn’t mean she wasn’t a danger: especially if there were others like her in this League.

“Dad?” Sara said, sitting on the sofa.

“Mm?” her father said.

“If I wanted a weapon, where would you suggest I look?”

“Excuse me?” Quentin said, after a baffled moment.

“I don’t mean a gun or anything like that,” Sara said, “Something to distract someone. Catch them by surprise.”

Quentin paused.

“Hypothetically speaking,” Sara added, quickly. It helped her father’s conscience somewhat.

“Hypothetically?” Quentin echoed.

“Exactly,” Sara said. “I know it’ll probably be awful, and illegal, and any number of things you couldn’t possibly sanction. But if it were all fine, what would you suggest?”

Her father still seemed just as hesitant. Still, he answered:

“Hypothetically,” he stressed, “Checking out Queen Consolidated wouldn’t be the worst you could do. I’ve heard that they’ve invented a lot of things, for military use and otherwise,” he paused. “And, hypothetically still, stealing from the Queens wouldn’t be something I could particularly blame you for.”

* * *

It always came back to the Queens.

Still, this time, Sara opted to go as the vigilante. Clad in leather and her wig, it was far easier to come up with a reason to scale the Queen Consolidated building.

At night, there were far fewer people inside. It was easy to sneak past, and reach the higher floors. She didn’t know exactly where the new technology was, but she could guess.

She reached a floor filled with computers as far as the eye could see. This was as good a place to start looking as any.

Silently, Sara moved between the cubicles, scanning for anything amiss. Presumably this was part of the technology section. Well, worth investigating at any rate: she had hours before employees would be coming back.

There was a sudden, shocked scream: Sara span quickly, to see a blonde woman sitting by her computer, staring.

“Oh my god,” the blonde said, almost too quickly to be intelligible. “You’re her.”

Sara blinked.

“I mean, you could be any her, but you’re her-her. Not that I’ve seen you, but not many people walk around head-to-toe in leather outside of- um,” the blonde quickly curtailed her babbling. “Sorry for- uh, that. I do that.”

“And you are?” Sara said, cautiously.

“Felicity,” the blonde said. “I, well, work here. Just stayed late to update. Why are you…”

“I’m looking for something,” Sara said. She shifted, to better look down at Felicity: “Do you know where the R&D section is?”

“That- it’s-” Felicity paused. “I could be fired for helping steal from the company.”

“You’re not helping,” Sara said, amiably. “You’re under duress.”

Felicity spent a moment considering that. She shrugged.

“Just so long as I have an excuse,” Felicity said, standing up. “Kinda a fan. Um. Follow me, then, it’s up a couple of floors. Uh, why do you need it?”

“I need an edge,” Sara said.

Felicity moved to the lift: Sara urged her onto the stairs. In case they’d been spotted by any security cameras, it was far easier to escape in the stairwell.

Two floors up, Felicity and Sara walked out into a lab. Felicity babbled idly, murmuring something about various projects she’d heard about, or assisted with. Sara paid her little mind, walking between the aisles as though shopping.

It took a few seconds to work out what each device did, and most wouldn’t be much use. A lot were better suited to be components of some other machine, and others had promise, but looked far too unwieldy.

She stopped by a smaller device, just about the right size to fit in the pocket of her jacket. Some form of sonic weaponry: it looked simple enough to use. There was the speaker itself, and a small, palm-sized second component adorned with little more than a button.

Sara paused for a moment. She could hear something: a distant clattering.

She’d been worried about security cameras. Apparently it hadn’t been in vain. She had a good instinct for when people were trying to sneak up to her.

“Get down,” Sara said, softly.

Felicity glanced sideways, surprised.

“Now,” Sara said, insistent. She didn’t turn.

Let security think they were taking her by surprise. No better way to test the weapon. It probably wouldn’t function as much more than a distraction, but that would be enough.

If Nyssa had been distracted, even if for an instant, their fight might have gone the other way.

Felicity crouched. Sara waited, focusing on the sound of footsteps. The click of the door opening, the rustle of fabric against gunmetal.

Sara quietly lifted up the sonic device, and pressed the button.

An unbearable shriek filled the room: the glass walls shattered in an instant. Sara cried out herself, caught off-guard for a moment, before vaulting over the table. She ducked down, and rolled over broken glass, before the bullets started flying.

Apparently Queen security didn’t have a high tolerance for vigilantes breaking in. Fair enough.

Still, it was worth it. This weapon had potential. She slipped both the speaker and device into her pocket: the speaker had stopped wailing after just a few seconds.

She reached the stairwell, and glanced down. No sign of any more security at this staircase: quickly, she began her descent, leaping over the railings.

* * *

She spent the rest of that night in a warehouse in a quieter district of the Glades. It was the kind of place that repeated screeching wouldn’t attract anyone. Not many people were near enough to hear, and enough shady dealings were carried out there that even those few would know to stay away.

She spent hours learning how the device sounded, and trying to puzzle out any alternate functionality, and how to recharge it. It looked as though there was a socket for a generic charger: the scientists wouldn’t have wanted it to be too elaborate.

Then she spent a few minutes working on various applications. Laurel would have had a ball to see her, posturing and posing to the empty air.

She could set it up ahead of time, if she knew where a meet was happening: that would be effective. She could also just keep it with her, and keep the remote to hand. It wouldn’t be too hard to fashion a strap to hold it to her palm, ready to use at any moment.

The more she practised, the more she thought, the better it seemed her brief descent into petty theft had gone. Besides, the Queens could afford to remake it. They hadn’t lost much.

* * *

Sara was in her room, while her father paced outside. She put it down to his typical nervousness about work, until he strode in.

“Look,” he said, reluctantly. “You know I can’t support what you do, right?”

“I know,” Sara said.

“But I will say this,” Quentin said, “If there was ever a place for a vigilante… The top floor of a hotel’s been sealed off, and guarded. It’s all done legally, and above board, but you can just tell there’s something shady happening up there. Hell, even your typical street thug can tell you that: sounds as though people are being recruited.”

“For what?”

“No idea,” Quentin said. “If I knew, the police would be able to do something.”

Sara paused. It was a thin lead, but she’d followed less. Besides, a little investigation wouldn’t hurt. She could help her father, like she’d helped Laurel.

“I’ll check it out,” Sara said.

* * *

Sara had staked out the bottom floor of the hotel, trying to see what she could of the upper floors before she broke in. That would draw too much attention, before she knew what was happening.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Sara turned: Nyssa was a few metres away, dressed how she had been when Sara first met her, in black and covered in weapons.

“Nyssa,” Sara said. “I thought you’d left.”

“I intended to,” Nyssa said, “Until I heard rumours of who had come to Starling City,” Nyssa paused. “It is not safe for me to be here.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because I felt certain you would be drawn to face him,” Nyssa said, “And I would warn you not to.”

“You know who’s up there?” Sara said.

Nyssa nodded. She glanced up briefly, and looked around, before responding.

“An enemy of my father’s,” she said. “Damien Darhk. There was a power vacuum left when Al Sa-her, who you call Malcolm Merlyn, was killed: many involved in his undertaking now have no function.”

“Merlyn was in the League?” Sara said.

“He was,” Nyssa said. “I knew him. Agents of such a League member, with knowledge of the machine he would have used to level part of the city, are of interest to Darhk’s hive. He is here to gather them. If he knew Ra’s Al Ghul’s daughter was here also…”

“Then you should go,” Sara said. “If you’re in danger-”

She couldn’t say exactly why she wanted Nyssa to be safe. She did her best to protect everyone, but still, Nyssa stood out in her mind.

“I am in danger no matter where I go,” Nyssa said. “I am also able to protect myself, from most. I am here because you would not survive.”

“You can’t know that,” Sara said.

“I can.”

Damien Darhk: Sara remembered the name suddenly. Nyssa’s manner more than the person sparked her memory: the one who’d killed Oliver, and who Nyssa apparently thought facing was the same as a death sentence.

It wasn’t fear, Sara wasn’t sure Nyssa was capable of that, but Nyssa certainly didn’t seem like she’d face Darhk if she had a choice.

“Tell you what,” Sara said, “If I die, you can say ‘I told you so,’ deal?”

“I am being serious,” Nyssa said.

“So am I,” Sara said. “If someone that dangerous is in this city, I have to stop them.”

Nyssa was staring at her. Sara frowned.

“I cannot decide if you’re brave or foolish,” Nyssa said. “I suspect the latter.”

“If you’re not going to help, then don’t,” Sara said. “It’s not like this matters to you: this isn’t your city. You don’t care.”

“I do care,” Nyssa said: and caught herself quickly. After a moment, she continued: “I do not want you to die.”

“I don’t want to die either,” Sara shrugged. “So I won’t.”

Nyssa raised her eyebrows: apparently trying to gauge if Sara genuinely thought that was enough. Sara shrugged.

It was easy to be cavalier. She’d spent five years never expecting to live through the night, and she’d hadn’t lost the habit. Risking her life just didn’t register as anything special.

That, and she knew little of Damien Darhk. Still, Nyssa’s wariness gave her pause: Nyssa was the only person she’d been able to fully exert herself against. If even she would think twice…

“How do you think of yourself?” Nyssa said.

“Pardon?”

“What do you think you are?” Nyssa said, “A vigilante, a hero, an agent of justice: I’ve known many who acted as you. Some thought themselves gods, unkillable: it was easy to disabuse them of that notion. Others think themselves chosen, and the universe itself will not let them fall until their mission is done. What is it you believe?”

“Nothing,” Sara said. “I do what I can, because I can. It’s just helping people: no higher cause, no grand plan. Hero, vigilante… You tell me, the name’s not what I worry about.”

“That’s all?”

“What else do I need?” Sara said. “I came back from five years in hell, but you can’t just leave that: you can’t forget it. So you don’t. There were times I thought leaving Lian Yu would mean I was at peace, but it didn’t take long to realize I’d changed. This is my peace. If nothing else, I can make sure no one else experiences the same.”

Nyssa didn’t speak at once. Instead, she remained, regarding Sara. She was as unblinking as ever, and serious.

Perhaps she saw something she understood: or something she recognized.

“It’s nothing special,” Sara said: she shrugged. “I’m just a canary.”

That, Nyssa reacted to. She jerked back, blinking.

“Excuse me?” Nyssa said.

“Oh,” Sara said, “It’s just a metaphor I heard. Miners used to use canaries: canaries kept them safe, at the risk of their own life. It fits.”

“So,” Nyssa said, slowly, “You see yourself as a canary?”

“I guess,” Sara shrugged.

“Very intimidating,” Nyssa said, deadpan. “I can see why the criminals in your city are so afraid of you.”

Sara could just _picture_ the smirk Nyssa wore beneath her veil. She rolled her eyes, and chuckled despite herself.

Nyssa tilted her head, apparently amused herself. She took a step closer: Sara jumped slightly as Nyssa took her hands.

“I mean it, Ta-er al-Sahfer,” Nyssa said: met her eyes.

“…What does that mean?”

“Canary,” Nyssa said playfully, before swiftly becoming serious again. “If you go into that hotel, you will not come out. Damien Darhk has… abilities.”

“I do too,” Sara said.

“I very much doubt they are of the same kind,” Nyssa said. “Do you believe in magic?”

“I’ve seen my share,” Sara said.

The island: Reiter’s idol. It was the sort of thing that was hard to forget: even after the mirakuru, and what it did to Shado, there was something fundamentally different about seeing the laws of the universe suspended.

It had changed her world. In a way, it was what convinced her to become a vigilante when she returned. In Starling City, she was Sara Lance: the kind of person who knew far too much about drink and drugs, and who’d borrowed her sister’s boyfriend.

Hardly a hero. But seeing the idol convinced her, firmly, that anything was possible. If what Reiter did could exist, then maybe there could also exist a Sara Lance who did real good.

Nyssa raised her eyebrows: “I sense you have quite a story behind you.”

“You’d be right,” Sara said.

“If you know of such things, you will know it is not to be trifled with,” Nyssa said.

“Unless you’re really imaginative, or really lucky,” Sara said. “Besides, like I said, I’ve got a new trick too.”

“Indeed?”

“Well, if I’m a canary, think of it as my cry,” Sara said. She twirled her staff, moving towards the door.

She’d waited long enough. Honestly, Nyssa had almost talked her out of it: she didn’t want that.

A hand on her shoulder.

“I suspect you will require more than birdsong,” Nyssa said.

“We’ll see,” Sara said: paused. “If he’s as dangerous as you say, I can’t let him keep on with what he’s doing. If he’s recruiting, who’s to say he won’t be back with an army in a couple of years? Better face him now than then.”

Nyssa sighed. Sara turned, momentarily distracted from her goal.

“You are certain?” Nyssa said.

“I am,” Sara said.

“I will miss you,” Nyssa said, and turned away.

* * *

Ascending the building was remarkably easy. The hotel staff didn’t get in her way, and Darhk’s guards were only on the top floor. She ascended to the roof, via a route that didn’t go through Darhk’s floor, and moved until she found a skylight.

Apparently Damien Darhk had a taste for luxury. It was either foolishness, or arrogance: having a window made him vulnerable. It was possible he simply didn’t credit any threat.

Sara crouched, peering down. The suite seemed empty.

She waited. She could be patient, when it was needed. Damien Darhk was probably just in another room. The lights were on, however: he was in the suite somewhere, and he was awake.

Eventually she saw movement. A blonde man in a smart suit wandered across the room, and poured himself a drink.

Sara leapt, bracing herself as she fell through the glass, already preparing to swing her staff-

Damien Darhk turned to face her, his face showing a flicker of surprise. Sara landed scant metres from him, preparing to spring-

He lifted one arm, and it was though the air around her had turned to steel. She couldn’t move.

Abilities. Right.

Damien tilted his head. He kept his arm extended, fingers open as though he was physically holding her. As his fingertips twitched, Sara felt the currents around her move in turn.

She swallowed in a desperate breath. She could barely even shiver, the force around her ribcage preventing almost any motion even breathing.

“Curious,” Darhk said. He gave the impression of one who expected to come across as friendly, even if malice glinted in his tone. “I don’t believe I know you. Could you refresh my memory?”

“You’re recruiting,” Sara said, strained. “I won’t let you hurt this city.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Darhk said: shrugged. “Yet at least. I take it you’re the vigilante they’re all talking about.”

Sara stared, defiantly.

What kind of person was he? Apparently he was a gloater. Still, she had to be sure he was as bad as the stories. An enemy of an organization called the League of Assassins might well be someone she could agree with.

His welcoming style left a lot to be desired, but then she might have behaved similarly. She’d forgiven Nyssa for their first meeting, too: paranoia made a certain hostility expected.

“I’ll tell you what,” Darhk said. He took a step closer, and moved directly in front of Sara. Something savage entered his tone: “Just for you, I’ll accelerate my schedule. I’ll destroy this city, because I can, and because you came here. How does that sound?”

His eyes burned. Sara glared, wincing only slightly as his grip tightened. He did live up to expectations then. Sara tensed-

An arrow whistled through the window. Darhk rolled his eyes, lifting his other hand and stopping it in mid-air.

“ _Really?_ ” he said, more exasperated than afraid.

Nyssa crashed through the same window. She, apparently, was relying on the element of surprise: the arrow through the window had worked on Merlyn, but just in case it wouldn’t this time she followed it with her sword.

The arrow dropped to the floor, and Damien refocused. Nyssa stopped mid-motion, just as Sara had.

Nyssa met his eyes with enough venom to make even Darhk raise his eyebrows.

“Now _you_ I’ve heard of,” he said. “How is your father, these days?”

Nyssa spat. Darhk lifted his arm just a little higher, and her lips went tight.

“Can I expect anyone else, or is this it?” Darhk said. “I have to say, I didn’t expect to see you- was it Talia or Nyssa? Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

He was facing Nyssa, leaving Sara with an impressive view of his ear. It was a pity she couldn’t move: both to look away, and because he was just about the length of her staff away.

It was a good thing he was a gloater.

Sara met Nyssa’s eyes, silently trying to communicate. There were a lot of things she wanted to say: from an apology, to a question.

_You were right: he is a real threat. Thank you for trying. I thought you’d left. Why would you come? You said anyone who faced him would die: why would you risk your life?_

So much that she wanted to say, including a whole host of things Sara didn’t feel as though she could put into words. Surprise, and gratitude, and interest.

Instead, Sara opted to wink.

Nyssa’s eyes widened just slightly. She seemed unsure, but nonetheless fixed a steely glare on Darhk. She smiled.

Sara could barely move. Her chest was held firmly in place by whatever magic Damien Darhk had. He couldn’t prevent all movement, however: she could talk, and she could still move her extremities. The kind of force needed to act on every square inch of her body would be needlessly elaborate.

She suspected Darhk required some degree of focus to be able to use his abilities. Should she distract him-

Sara twitched her fingers, and pressed the button strapped to her palm. Immediately, a near-painful shriek filled the room, shattering the few remaining windows. The device in Sara’s pocket warmed.

Darhk was the only one unprepared. Nyssa took a moment to recover, not quite certain of what she was to expect: Sara, however, had braced herself fully.

The instant Darhk’s magical grip lessened, she swung her staff. Darhk, still reeling from the sudden shock, could only slump as she struck the back of his head.

“Told you,” Sara said, taking in a deep breath of air.

“Indeed,” Nyssa said. She took a step closer, looking down at the unconscious Damien Darhk. Then, with barely a second thought, plunged her sword into his heart. She looked back up to Sara: “I must say, Ta-er al-Sahfer, your birdsong is truly unappealing.”

Sara chuckled, but nodded. Nyssa had a point.

“It worked,” she said: paused. “Did you have to kill him?”

“Yes,” Nyssa said, without a second thought. “You do not seem averse to taking lives, when it is required.”

“He was unconscious,” Sara said.

She wasn’t arguing. Rather, she was curious. From the little she’d seen, Darhk likely deserved it, but it still sent a chill down her spine as to how casually Nyssa dispatched him.

“And when he awoke, no cell would be able to hold someone with his powers,” Nyssa said. “If we could strip them from him, somehow, his organization would still act to free him. We have replaced evil with death. It is what we do”

Nyssa turned her head quickly, towards the front door of the suite.

“Speaking of his organization,” she said, “I suspect his guards will object to our leaving.”

“Let them,” Sara said, twirling her staff.

* * *

Compared to facing and surviving Damien Darhk’s preternatural skills, getting through his guards and out the hotel was easy. Tiring, but easy.

She fell surprisingly easy into a rhythm with Nyssa. They fought side by side, and back to back.

Those that worked under Darhk were undeniably well-trained. Of course, so was Nyssa, and so was Sara: and together it was a fool’s errand to go up against them.

Somehow Sara wasn’t worried about turning her back to Nyssa. She glanced at her only briefly as she whirled her staff through the air, never once worried, only wanting to get a full view of her surroundings.

They reached the stairwell, leaving a trail of unconscious and groaning mercenaries behind them. Sara twirled as she knocked out the last, stopping her motion, and ending up facing Nyssa.

She was breathless, from exertion as much as anything. Her nerves thrummed from the thrill, adrenaline coursed through every inch of her: and Nyssa was looking right at her.

Nyssa’s veil was lowered: she didn’t need to conceal her face here. Sara’s eyes darted down, taking in her face, her lips.

For a moment, Sara was suddenly hyperaware of how close the two of them were.

Nyssa’s lips quirked upwards, in a smirk Sara wasn’t quite sure she wanted to interpret.

“Content?” Nyssa said, as breathless as Sara.

“No,” Sara said without thinking about her words.

Nyssa’s smile widened.

* * *

Sara staggered home alone, exhausted but in far better shape than her last night out with Nyssa. Laurel was asleep, apparently: her father was pacing.

“Sara,” he said immediately, as she walked through the door. “Are you-”

“It’s dealt with,” Sara said. “You were right. One shady customer.”

“I’m sorry,” Quentin said, “I was frustrated when I brought that to you- I wouldn’t choose to put you in danger. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Relax,” Sara said. “Like I said, it’s dealt with. I’m fine. And this is what I do, you know?”

Quentin crossed the distance he’d been pacing again, to sit down. He seemed almost more exhausted than Sara. He always did worry.

“I know,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be scared for you. Nothing’ll ever stop me caring, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Sara said.

She walked to the sofa, half-collapsing onto it. She let out one long, deep breath, stripping off her wig and mask and jacket.

“Ever worry about the complete lack of normal in our lives?” Quentin said. He exhaled heavily. “Ever since we lost you, things have been spiralling out of control. Then you came back, and it’s all been…”

“You don’t think this counts as normal?” Sara said, gesturing to her outfit.

“Beating up bad guys and stealing tech?” Quentin said. “Guess it is our normal. Still.”

Sara chuckled, leaning back. It was good to just have a chance to relax, especially after that night. Taking on a small army wasn’t her idea of a good time. Well, actually it was, but it was still something she needed to recuperate after.

“If it helps,” Sara said, “I think I’ve got a crush. You can worry about that rather than the vigilante-ing if that makes you feel any better.”

“Every father’s right,” Quentin said. He chuckled, before straightening his back. “When do I get to meet him? I should practise my intimidating stare.”

Sara laughed lightly.

“I would genuinely pay to see you try to intimidate her,” Sara said. Quentin raised his eyebrows.

“Her?” he said, and paused a moment. “Well, can’t say I’m that surprised. Anyone I know?”

“You’ve met,” Sara said. “Once, anyway. And I think you know her by reputation.”

Sara stretched out lazily, lifting her legs up onto the sofa. Her father paused, apparently trying to scan over the list of people he knew.

“You’ll have to tell me,” Quentin said.

“Remember that dark archer you were chasing a few weeks back?” Sara said idly.

There was a long pause. Then Quentin started laughing, and nearly slipped out of his chair. Sara blinked, and watched, mildly entertained. It was almost a minute before he’d straightened up.

“Of course it’s her,” he said, still evidently amused. “Guess this really is just what passes for normal around here.”

Sara hadn’t been sure whether he’d be scared and disproving, or just find the whole thing hilarious. She was thankful he’d picked the latter: she could certainly understand why.

* * *

Sara had a late morning. Nyssa visited briefly, but didn’t stay long, merely making sure Sara wasn’t suffering any aftereffects.

She delivered a quick update: mentioned that the forces of Damien’s hive were leaving Starling City. She’d lingered for a moment: looked sympathetically at Sara.

Sara had been too tired to do much else. She’d taken Nyssa’s hand though, in a futile effort to prevent her leaving.

Nyssa was slightly less brusque than usual. Even so, she didn’t stay: apparently she had new targets in the city.

Laurel was her next visitor. She sat by Sara’s bedside, and stayed in silence for a long time.

“Another rough night?” Laurel said.

“Not as bad as the last,” Sara said. “I just need my beauty sleep, you know me.”

“You don’t have to joke, you know,” Laurel said.

“But where’s the fun in that?”

“I just mean, you can talk about it,” Laurel said. “You don’t need to protect us: you go off every night, it might be easier if you let us know what was actually happening.”

“I’m fine,” Sara said.

She had five years of stories, and she wasn’t ready to share any more than what was necessary. Some things, she just didn’t want to relive.

“I meant easier for us,” Laurel said.

Sara frowned: faced her.

“Where do you go? What do you do?” Laurel said. “I know vaguely what happens, but… This is the second time you’ve come back like this.”

“And you think knowing the details would make it better?” Sara said.

“Yes,” Laurel said: paused. “No. Easier maybe. All I know is what I’m imagining, and it scares the life out of me, Sara.”

Sara paused. She’d been worried about the effect this would have on her family. Mostly, she’d been concerned with what would happen if the night came she didn’t go home.

She’d not wanted to burden them with what was really happening. Now they knew, however, and she hadn’t planned on dealing with that. Of course they’d be worried for her: seeing her come home, bruised and exhausted.

“Few dozen mercenaries,” Sara shrugged. “That’s all. There aren’t many details to give: none you’d believe anyway.”

Laurel stared at her, silently. She seemed incredulous.

“It was a special case,” Sara said, “And it’s over now anyway: I handled it. You don’t need to be worried. Besides, someone had my back.”

“There’s another?” Laurel said.

“Vigilante?” Sara said. “Sort of. Don’t know how long she’ll be around for, but she helped last night.”

“But you’d accept help?” Laurel said.

“I did, sure,” Sara said. “Another pair of hands never goes amiss. Why?”

“Train me,” Laurel said.

She leant forward, insistent. Sara blinked, caught off-guard for a few moments. She looked at her sister, trying to gauge how serious Laurel was.

“What?” Sara said.

“Train me,” Laurel said. “I could head out with you. Help you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s either I go out and see what you’re up against, and do what I can to stop you getting hurt again,” Laurel said, “Or I stay home wishing I could help, and doing nothing.”

There was an edge of something to her voice. It might have been desperation, or fear. It couldn’t be easy, to know there was a chance you’d lose your sister again every night.

“I’m not sure I’m much of a teacher,” Sara said, cautiously.

“We can figure it out,” Laurel said. “Just let me work with you.”

She was earnest, at least: genuine. Sara knew her sister had taken a fair few self-defence classes, so she wouldn’t be working from scratch.

It was possible. It was definitely something she could do. And Sara definitely had to admit, working alongside someone could be fun.

“Ok,” Sara said after a few seconds. “Sure. It’s a plan,” she smiled to herself. “Dad’s going to be thrilled, huh?”

* * *

Sara went out alone when night came. She’d asked Laurel to give her time to plan out how it was going to happen.

The streets were quiet.

Sara briefly wandered by the hotel Darhk had stayed at. There was no sign anything was considered a crime scene: she supposed his hive had hushed it up. She’d have to keep an ear out for other traces of them.

She ran over the rooftops, enjoying the exertion as much as anything. It was empty up here. The streets were unoccupied now, but the rooftops were truly abandoned.

“I hoped I’d see you again.”

Almost abandoned. Sara found herself smiling, turning around.

“Nyssa,” she said. “I wondered where you’d gone.”

“I must leave Starling City,” she said.

“I’m sure you’ve said that before,” Sara said: smiled. “Seems like you’re taking any excuse to stay.”

“Just one,” Nyssa said: paused. “I truly have little choice this time. My father has directly requested my presence.”

“But you stuck around long enough to say goodbye?” Sara said, playfully.

“Not quite,” Nyssa said. “I hoped I could convince you to come with me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You would be an asset to the League, were you to join,” Nyssa said. “I am certain it would be allowed. And… I will miss you.”

It was rare for Nyssa to hesitate like that. She usually seemed so confident in what she said.

“I think I’d miss you too,” Sara said. “I doubt I’d fit in at the League of Assassins though.”

“It is rare anyone does, at first,” Nyssa said.

“How about, instead, you stay?” Sara said.

Nyssa said nothing, merely regarding Sara.

“Stay in Starling City,” Sara said. “Has to be easier than delaying indefinitely. Forget the League, stick around. I’m sure we’ll be able to find plenty of excitement here, if the last few months have been anything to go by.”

Nyssa opened her mouth, then stopped. For a tantalizing few seconds, she seemed genuinely conflicted.

Her gaze shifted, unable to meet Sara’s eyes.

“I cannot,” she said.

“You don’t want to?” Sara said.

Nyssa paused.

“My father has commanded I return,” Nyssa said. “There is no more to say than that. What Ra’s Al Ghul asks will come to pass.”

“But if you had a choice?” Sara said.

“Then I would stay,” Nyssa said. “Did it need saying?”

Nyssa met Sara’s eyes: there was a depth of something in her expression. It stood out, given how guarded she usually was, but it was impossible to fully read.

“Kinda,” Sara said, “You’re not the most expressive person.”

“Indeed?” Nyssa quirked an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah,” Sara said. “Can be hard to figure out what you’re thinking.”

Nyssa took one step closer and kissed her. Initially, Sara jumped in surprise. Quickly, however, she found herself relaxing into it.

Nyssa’s lips, Nyssa’s scent, Nyssa’s hands: Sara closed her eyes, doing what she could to memorize every instant.

With an air of reluctance, Nyssa stepped away. She regarded Sara still, eyes looking her up and down.

“I trust that makes things clearer,” Nyssa said.

“Very,” Sara said, only slightly hoarse.

It was even harder, then, to acknowledge the fact Nyssa had to leave. But, then, what did she expect, falling for someone in the League of Assassins?

“See you again?” Sara said.

“I promise you that, Ta-er al-Sahfer,” Nyssa said. “And you will always be welcomed in Nanda Parbat.”

“Can’t promise I’ll be able to get that far,” Sara said. “Or that I have any idea where that is. Send a map?”

“Certainly,” Nyssa said. A smile played at her lips. “Are you sure you do not wish to come with me?”

Sara hesitated. She couldn’t deny being tempted: the League didn’t sound as though it had a particularly savoury reputation, but she had little experience of it beyond Nyssa, and Nyssa she trusted.

If it meant more opportunities to challenge herself, to exert herself, and meant more time she could spend with Nyssa, then it sounded almost desirable.

But, then, this was her city: and Laurel was here, and her father was here. And Nyssa seemed as though she had enough freedom to be able to return sometime. Hopefully soon.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Sara said, echoing Nyssa.

Another glimpse of conflict in Nyssa’s eyes, but she nodded.

“Until we meet again, then,” Nyssa said.

“I look forward to it.”


	4. The Second Canary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long notes time!  
> A fair few people asked for a continuation, and I definitely like the idea. This is just a sort-of taster, to see if people are still interested, as an epilogue to this part of the story. Sara training Laurel, with sparring and sisterly banter. That's about it. 
> 
> This story's part of a shared universe now. There's not much else in it (at the time of writing this), but there are a couple of ideas I'd like to write, like a Flash-based one (well, Caitlin-based) which broadly speaking have a similar enough theme that I ought to group them together, and I don't want all the Canary-centric stories under the banner of this one story either. The first three chapters were pretty much a complete story in and of themselves.  
> The next thing I'd like to write for Sara is basically going to be the Birds of Prey, because a couple of people liked the idea of a Team Canary, and as far as I can tell that's basically the established equivalent.  
> Can't say which is going to come first, or when, but I'll try. I'll only upload the first part when the story's done, or almost done.

Sara would be the first to say she missed Nyssa. Still, she wouldn’t let that stop her from doing what she usually did. She ran over rooftops, and kept the streets safe, occasionally helping out with a few of her sister’s cases.

And Laurel had suggested that she could help. Sara would admit, she liked the idea. After five years away, with no real long-term company, she didn’t want to risk loneliness now she was back.

She’d enjoyed fighting alongside Nyssa. If she could train Laurel, maybe she’d get that same feeling of teamwork again.

The problem was where to do it.

When it was just her, Sara didn’t need any specialized base. What few bits of equipment she needed she could store in her room: if she was going to start training, though, she needed a good space to let loose in.

That was when she caught sight of the old, abandoned clock-tower, and remembered Nyssa.

The next morning, she left her mask and vigilante-identity behind, taking Laurel out for a wander. It wasn’t long before they’d made it to the clock-tower.

No one else was in it, or particularly near. It was a nearly a ruin.

“What do you think?” Sara said.

“Of what?” Laurel said.

“This,” Sara said, “As a home base. Canary cave? No, that sounds terrible. Might need to beef up security a bit, but if you want me to train you, this is a pretty good place. Had a good fight here.”

“I doubt there’s anywhere in the city you haven’t had a fight,” Laurel said.

“True,” she said. “But the one here lasted a while. Good place for sparring. Fond memories, too.”

That being said, she was fairly sure most peoples’ recollections of meeting their girlfriends didn’t feature a duel.

There were a few pieces of scaffolding, a few discarded sheets of plastic wrap, and a few bits of litter from squatters who apparently decided it just wasn’t homey enough.

It looked as though there had been a few attempts to renovate the clock-tower: none had gone anywhere. Probably forgotten about, Starling City didn’t have a great track record when it came to looking after the poorer sections of the city.

Sara paced. The clock-face was tinted glass: nothing could be seen through it, but it let a decent amount of light in and cast mildly eerie shadows across the hands.

She could definitely make this work.

“So, what are you thinking?” Laurel said. “Temporary place to spar, or do you want something longer term, stop all your hero gear cluttering up the apartment?”

“I’m not sure,” Sara said. “Doubt dad would mind getting a few bits and pieces out. Would need to renovate a bit.”

“Pity there are no vigilante-exclusive interior designers,” Laurel said.

“Sure we can manage,” Sara said.

“I’ve seen your room,” Laurel said. “You spent five years on an island. It shows.”

Sara chuckled, and was about to fire back when there was a sound. She turned her head, instinctively on guard.

The crackle of plastic, a hollow echo of something walking along the floor. And then a meow, as a small black cat wandered into view.

“I don’t think we’re the only ones who like the place,” Laurel said.

Sara raised her eyebrows, and watched as her sister approached the cat. She crouched; it warily approached, regarding her with a dash of suspicion, as cats were wont to do.

“Just what we need,” Sara said: sighed.

“You don’t like cats?” Laurel said, turning her head back, faux-scandalized. She had one hand out, preparing to pet but not moving, so as to not scare the cat.

“It’s not that,” Sara said, “But Canary, and guessing you’d want a similar name, a cat’s just what a pair of canaries need.”

Laurel nodded, conceding the irony. Then she bit her lip, shaking slightly in amusement.

The cat approached, rubbing its face against her hand, apparently deciding to trust her. Idly, she stroked the side of its head, down the black fur of its back.

“What is it?” Sara said, noting her sister’s suppressed laughter.

“Just thought,” Laurel said. “I tawt I taw a puddy tat.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “You’re not calling yourself Tweety.”

“Spoilsport,” Laurel said.

She chuckled, reaching out. The cat tensed for a moment, then softened, and let Laurel pick it up. It lay idly in her arms, purring as she stroked.

It was entirely black, save for its eyes, and its fur was in remarkably good condition for a stray. Still, it didn’t seem too fond of people, despite letting its guard down for Laurel.

“Tell me you’re not thinking of calling it Sylvester,” Sara said.

“Nah,” Laurel said. “I think she looks more like a Selina. Don’t you?” her voice changed as she addressed the cat, smiling: “Do you like that, hm, Selina?”

Selina meowed, loudly. Apparently deciding she’d had enough of being carried, she stretched out: Laurel crouched to make it easier for her to get to the floor. Instead, Selina decided to clamber up, over Laurel’s shoulder, and hop down to the ground from there.

Laurel winced a little at the claws, but straightened again quickly, watching the cat stalk off to the scaffolding. It batted at a hanging sheet of plastic as it did.

“Clock tower then,” Laurel said, “I like it. We’ve even got a mascot. What next, do I get a costume?”

“Not yet,” Sara said, “Wait until we’ve practised a bit. No point in getting a costume if you’ll change your mind.”

“I won’t,” Laurel said.

“I just want you to be sure you do this knowing what you’re getting into,” Sara said. “Don’t feel obligated.”

“I don’t,” Laurel said. “I want to. Not going to let my sister put herself in danger every night without even trying to help.”

“Is it just for me?”

“Not entirely,” Laurel said. “The number of cases I have to pass over because there’s nothing I can legally do is never easy. I’d like to be able to help those people.”

Laurel had never made that much of a secret. Sara admired her work ethic, even before she’d started lending cases to the vigilante.

“So, how do we start?” Laurel said.

“Not just yet,” Sara said. “Need a few mats in here, couple of chairs, tools, and a padlock so no one walks in. That’ll be a good start.”

“I’ve can get a padlock,” Laurel said, uncertainly.

“And there are a few mob-run stores I can pay a visit to,” Sara said. “Same time tomorrow, to start?”

“It’s a plan.”

* * *

Sara slept curled up in the corner of the clock-tower after spending the night as the vigilante, deciding it was too late to head home. She’d left a message on the answering machine.

She’d spent a few nights out, and it had never worried her father until the moment he heard she was the vigilante. It was to be expected, she supposed, but even so. Now she did need to keep checking in.

Waking up still fairly early, Sara rolled out the mats, and prepared a few bits and pieces. It was unlikely they’d do much more than test Laurel’s hand-to-hand, but it never hurt to be prepared.

She texted Laurel to ask her to bring a change of clothes, as an afterthought. She didn’t want to wait until nightfall and head back home as the Canary.

Laurel had come through with the padlock at least. There were a few strong ones at CNRI used to lock away the more sensitive case files, and there were always several spare. They wouldn’t miss one.

Laurel arrived, some time later, to see Sara hitting the lock as hard as she could with her staff. Selina was hiding under the clockface, eyes never leaving the source of the ugly noise.

“Well don’t break it,” Laurel said, conversationally, as she walked closer.

“It can’t look too new,” Sara said. “If it’s battered and chipped, it won’t stand out: no one will think twice about the clock-tower.”

Idly, Sara kicked it, making the padlock flip over. Good enough: and it should still be sturdy enough to work.

“Like what you’ve done with the place,” Laurel said, scanning the chamber.

Most of the floor had been cleared. While several bits of scaffolding were still up, they were more out of the way. The rest lay disassembled in the corner: and all the loose plastic and litter had been kicked to the side.

There was an old, battered table in front of the clock-face. It was the beginnings of a base, if Sara decided to stay. If not, there was no big loss.

Still, she’d need somewhere to read files, and sit, and take notes. Add a few drawers, a chair… For the time being, she’d used spare scaffolding as placeholders.

For the most part, however, padded mats covered the floor. There were only three, placed side by side, and fenced in by loose bars from the scaffolding to prevent sliding. It was clearly improvised, but it should do.

“We’ll see how you feel after you lose a few rounds,” Sara said.

“Cocky,” Laurel said: chuckled.

“I have reason to be,” Sara said. “Know much in the way of fighting?”

“Fair bit of self-defence,” Laurel said. “That’s all.”

“Nothing, then,” Sara said. “Self-defence is just that: defence. It’s meant for when you’re already at their mercy. If I do my job right, you’ll never get that far. You have to be ready to strike before they do, and be able to do more than counter.”

Sara paced over to the mats, gesturing for Laurel to follow. She left her phone and watch in the table, and waited for Laurel to do the same with her breakables.

“Ready?” Sara said.

“So, we’re just going to spar?” Laurel said.

“I can only teach you the same way I was taught,” Sara said. “You’ll figure it out. It’s this or slapping a bowl of water.”

“What now?”

“No idea,” Sara said. “I wasn’t really patient enough to keep on with that. Switched trainers.”

“Who trained you?”

“Long story,” Sara said: chuckled. “Tell you what, every hit you can get in will net you an answer to any question you ask. Deal?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t hold back,” Sara said, lifting both arms and adapting her posture.

“You too,” Laurel said.

Sara chuckled, and lunged.

As she’d expected, Laurel was decent on the defensive. About half the time she could get out of a grapple, so long as Sara didn’t push too hard. Her evasion was good, as well, but Sara knew how to move faster.

She didn’t try to win. Sara kept it going, gauging her sister’s stamina as much as skill. Working a desk job hadn’t done wonders for that: Laurel began to slow after a few minutes.

Still, Sara knew her beginnings had been much less encouraging.

Just as Laurel was getting too visibly weary for the session to be worth continuing, Sara finished it, feinting, sidestepping, and lunging again, pinning Laurel to the mat. She rolled to the side, bouncing up to her feet: Laurel lay there for a few seconds.

“Please tell me you were going all out,” Laurel said, breathless.

“Afraid not,” Sara said. She sat herself down on the edge of a table: chuckled.

“Great.”

“You did good though,” Sara said. “My first fight went much worse.”

“Don’t see how,” Laurel said, staring at the roof.

“Trust me,” Sara said.

She hopped back to her feet, moving over to offer a hand to Laurel: help her sister to her feet. Laurel took it, standing up. Both of them went over to the table, to sit.

“You’ve got to get better chairs in here,” Laurel said.

“I’ll work on that,” Sara said.

“Maybe a mini-fridge,” Laurel said. “Snacks, if we’re dreaming.”

“I picked up some,” Sara said. “Energy drinks, couple of terribly unhealthy pick-me-ups.”

“The best kind,” Laurel said, “Where?”

“I’ll tell you after another round.”

Laurel raised her eyebrows, exhaustedly disbelieving. Sara chuckled.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Sara said.

“I had a gym teacher like you,” Laurel said.

“Could always maroon you on an island,” Sara said. “It worked for me.”

Laurel tilted her head, apparently genuinely considering it. Then she straightened, facing Sara again, and slipping off the table.

“Nah,” Laurel said, “I’ve got years of sibling rivalry to work out. Let’s go.”

* * *

Laurel made it home, bruised, tired, and mildly demoralized. Still, Sara seemed hopeful: she was encouraging at any rate.

And besides, she could take breaks with Selina. The stray cat seemed to enjoy lingering around the clock-tower: Laurel had made a note to bring a bit of food for her tomorrow.

For most of tomorrow, though, she’d be back at CNRI. She wondered how distracted she’d be by the prospect of taking a more hands-on approach.

Even if her first day of training hadn’t gone spectacularly well, it hadn’t changed her mind. If anything, it made the prospect all the more encouraging. She’d like to see her sister fight, without worrying about being the victim.

Sleeping was trickier. As tired as she was, she couldn’t stop imagining how her sparring session would go. New moves, new counters, new techniques.

There wasn’t much time to think in the heat of combat: or, if there was, she hadn’t picked up the knack yet. Afterwards though, she could think and overthink: strategize.

By the time she fell asleep, she was considerably more confident.

* * *

It was evening by the time Laurel made it to the clock-tower. She’d called Sara to arrange it.

Selina greeted her as she arrived. Laurel smiled, and sat: Selina hopped up into her lap, enjoying the attention the Lances afforded her.

It looked as though Sara had done a little more when it came to furnishing the room. The addition of chairs was the most notable: three old, scratched things all placed between the table and the mats.

“Expecting someone else?” Laurel said, as Sara walked in, gesturing to the third chair.

“Hm? Oh, right,” Sara said, “Saw three the same, seemed a waste to leave one behind.”

“Saw where?”

“Bratva hideout,” Sara said. “Russian mafia. Most of what they had in that particular room would’ve been confiscated by the police anyway, I just added chairs to the list.”

“Well, I like them,” Laurel said. “Now, just steal a fridge and we’ll be in business.”

“I’ll let you know if I see one,” Sara said.

“Raid a few drug labs,” Laurel said. “They’ve got to have the equipment.”

“No one will notice me sneaking out lugging a great big fridge,” Sara said.

“Exactly,” a smile.

“And I should definitely choose my targets based on what I can acquire from them.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Laurel said. She looked around speculatively. “What gangs do you think would have good taste in wallpaper?”

“Heard good things about the Bertinelli syndicate,” Sara said.

“Then go after them,” Laurel said, playfully.

“I’ll add them to my list,” Sara said. “Might not need to, though. Heard rumours some other vigilante’s making life hard for them.”

“Another one?” Laurel raised her eyebrows. “Haven’t heard about that.”

“Just a rumour,” Sara said. “Might be nothing. It’s very specific to that one family.”

“Is that who the third chair’s for?”

“Selina can have it,” Sara said. “I’ve got my hands full at the moment. Troublesome student, you know how it is.”

“Hey!”

“Anyway, stop trying to distract me,” Sara said. “You wanted to train, let’s train.”

Sara hopped to her feet, quickly getting to the mats. She turned to see Laurel still sitting: Laurel pointed to Selina, still lying on her lap, making a playfully incredulous face.

She couldn’t move when she was busy petting a cat. And despite Selina’s general levels of energy, it seemed this was the one time she wasn’t eager to move on.

Sara rolled her eyes, amused. After a few moments, Laurel sighed, and lifted Selina off, putting her on the floor.

As Laurel went to the mat, Selina followed. Sara raised her eyebrows.

“We’re not sparring until she’s further away,” Sara said. “We’re not risking hurting her.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” Laurel said.

She glanced down at the black cat. Selina stalked between their legs, apparently fascinated by the bouncy material of the mats.

Both sisters watched as she wandered around. Of course this would be the time she’d choose to explore. Still, eventually, Selina apparently got bored and sprinted away, curling up under the clock face’s shadow.

Sara breathed a sigh of relief, and turned back to Laurel: “Ready?”

Laurel responded with a punch, hoping taking the initiative would count for something. It didn’t. Despite planning most of the night, and a lot of the day for that matter, the first match was over remarkably quickly.

Knowing what to expect, Laurel was quickly back on her feet, and tried again.

It wasn’t quite the triumphant start she imagined, but she was used to it. Even so, she began to pick up as the day went on, much more than she had before. She lasted longer, dodged and blocked more, and sometimes saw what might have been the beginnings of strain on Sara’s face.

Eventually, she landed a blow, thrusting her palm out while Sara was too distracted to defend. Sara stumbled back a step, quickly bouncing back on the balls of her feet, but she lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Nicely done,” Sara said.

“Are you ok?” Laurel said.

“I’ve had worse,” Sara said.

“That doesn’t encourage me.”

“I’ve had worse in _this room_ ,” Sara said. “You’ve got ways to go before you’ll have to worry about hurting me.”

“Do you have to rub it in?”

“If I provoke you, you might find it easier,” Sara teased. “Anyway, for future reference, be careful how much force you put behind your blows. You need a certain amount of oomph, but too much and it can backfire. If I’d dodged-”

“But you didn’t.”

“But if I had-”

“Which you didn’t,” Laurel said again. At Sara’s expression, she chuckled: “If you’re being cocky, I will too.”

“Fine,” Sara said: sighed, but smiled. “If a _hypothetical person_ had dodged that, you’d be open for the time it takes you to recover. It’s a balancing act: hard enough to do some damage, light enough that you can recover at a moment’s notice.”

Laurel nodded. It was odd how little direct advice Sara gave: but then, she’d learnt more from experience, it sounded like. She might not be the best teacher. Her methods did seem to be little more than repeatedly practise.

With that, Sara began to head over to the chairs. Laurel followed, glad of the break.

She wasn’t entirely sure how she’d gotten the hit in. Laurel had to admit, it did feel a little like fluke. Then again, that might just mean she was improving. They’d see how it went.

“I seem to remember you promised me something, yesterday,” Laurel said.

“Hm?”

“You answer a question for every hit I get in,” Laurel said. “That’s one.”

“True,” Sara said: she chuckled, “Ask away.”

“Who trained you?” Laurel said. “I barely know anything about what happened on the island. It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it, I just… I’d like to hear a little of what you went through, even if it’s just where this knowledge is coming from.”

Sara didn’t say anything immediately. She shifted in her chair, staring absently forwards. She opened her mouth a few times, about to speak but not entirely sure what to say.

Even so, Laurel didn’t interrupt. She could see her sister was considering answering.

“There were a few people,” Sara said. “Maseo, Tatsu, Slade, Shado… I guess Slade, mostly. Shado tried, but I couldn’t keep at her methods.”

“Crowded island,” Laurel said.

“It was,” Sara said. “Way too crowded. But yeah, Slade and Shado were my first teachers. Slade was ASIS, always seemed to default to using a pair of swords. He trained me using a branch: I started using a pole after that, it followed easily. Shado was an archer, and an amazing one.”

Sara’s tone turned wistful. She fell silent.

“What happened to them?” Laurel said.

Sara paused for a moment. She stared at the floor, and the shadow of the clock hands cast on the ground.

“That’s more than one question,” she said.

“ _Sara_ ,” Laurel said. Sara didn’t chuckle, that time.

“They’re gone,” Sara said. Another pause: then she continued, speaking in one big rush. “Slade was killed by a man- Ivo, someone else on the island. Shado almost was, but there was a drug. Mirakuru, they called it. It healed her, but made her… twisted.”

Sara’s voice turned slightly hoarse. She inhaled, swallowing.

“I don’t know what happened to her,” Sara said. “I injected her with the cure, but the ship we were on was falling apart. I was washed away, would’ve died if it wasn’t for… Woke up in Hong Kong, never saw her again.”

Laurel listened silently: then frowned.

“Sorry,” she said, “ _Hong Kong_?”

“Very long, very boring story,” Sara said.

“I’m sorry,” Laurel said.

“About Hong Kong?”

“About Shado, and Slade,” Laurel said. “I didn’t know… all that had happened to you.”

“Yeah,” Sara said.

Laurel didn’t say anything immediately. She couldn’t begin to understand some of the details of Sara’s story; ending up in China, some miracle drug…

But she did understand losing people.

Part of Laurel had, guiltily, resented Sara. She hadn’t had to think her sister had died, she hadn’t needed to see her father descend into alcoholism, or their family come apart.

She’d never said anything, and tried to quash those thoughts whenever they arose.

Still, it was harder to feel anything but pity, now she’d heard the details. She hadn’t expected five years on an island to be perfect, but she hadn’t known the depth of what had happened.

“It was a few years ago,” Sara said. “I’m- well, not over it, but used to it.”

“Have you looked for her?” Laurel said.

“Shado?” Sara said: paused. “No.”

“Why not?”

“We… weren’t on the best of terms, by the end,” Sara said. “And I don’t need to spend ages searching for someone when I know they’re gone.”

“How do you know?” Laurel said. “You survived, and if Oliver did too…”

“It was five years where nothing good happened,” Sara said. “Nyssa didn’t mention anyone else who knew me washing up at the League, and Shado definitely wasn’t in Hong Kong.”

Sara closed her eyes.

“I shouldn’t have cured her,” she said. “If she still had mirakuru in her system, its healing factor might have kept her alive, regardless. Instead…”

“You couldn’t have known,” Laurel said.

“I know,” Sara said. She shrugged, offering a fake smile: “Feeling guilty’s my right, anyway. Lot of things I should feel guilty for, that I don’t.”

Sara glanced sideways, her expression unreadable. There were moments when they were close, and moments when Laurel almost couldn’t recognize her sister.

“Anyway, you got much more than one answer,” Sara said. She hopped to her feet. “Come on.”

“You’re sure?” Laurel said, slowly standing.

“Very sure,” Sara said. “Besides, you’re here to train, right?”

“And talk with my sister.”

“Which you can do if you get a hit in,” Sara said.

She smiled, but there was something odd in her eyes. Laurel hadn’t realized just how her memories seemed to pain her.

The next session, Laurel did just manage to get a blow in, albeit not as neatly as before. She didn’t ask another question.

* * *

After several weeks, Laurel didn’t seem to be getting in many more hits, but Sara seemed to think she was improving. Certainly, Sara seemed to grow wearier faster: Sara had been holding back, after all.

Still, it wasn’t particularly encouraging to never win a fight, no matter how long she practised for. It might be a while before she’d put anywhere near the time into learning to fight that Sara had, and so a while before she could expect to face her on even terms.

Sara wasn’t a perfect teacher. It was easy to admit that; there was little motivation, and little sense of improvement when Sara kept putting more effort in, with little mention. Sometimes it felt as though she was still in her first sparring session without progressing at all.

If she paid attention, though, Laurel could feel herself improving. With no one other than Sara to face, though, it was hard to tell.

 “You’re still interested in this?” Sara said.

“In what?”

“Crime-fighting, helping me,” Sara said.

“Of course,” Laurel said. “Same reasons as before. That’s not going to change.”

“Just making sure you didn’t get disillusioned,” Sara said.

“Why ask again now?”

“You’re getting good at hand-to-hand,” Sara said, “Much higher standard that most typical street crooks. I was thinking about taking you out one night.”

Laurel froze for an instant, almost forgetting to duck under a blow.

Well, that was a sign she was improving, she supposed. Sara hadn’t been open to the idea that Laurel join her at the start, worried that she wouldn’t be able to look after herself.

“Of course, you’ll need a disguise,” Sara said.

“Give me your spare costume,” Laurel said. “Save time.”

“Someone’s eager.”

“It’s why I’m training with you,” Laurel said. “I’d like to be able to fight alongside you.”

“It’s a plan, then,” Sara said: flashed a smile. “Sidekick.”

“Partner,” Laurel emphasized, landing a blow.

Sara chuckled, responding in kind. Their sparring session went on a while longer; that was another sign of improvement Laurel had spotted. It took much longer for Sara to be able to end a match, and Laurel found she could go for longer without getting tired.

When they went to sit, Sara got drinks. Despite Laurel’s suggestion, Sara hadn’t stolen a fridge: they’d just taken to bringing picnic baskets of energy bars and ice boxes of cool drinks to their sparring sessions.

That, and a saucer of leftover milk for Selina. She seemed to have made the clock-tower her new home.

More and more of Sara’s vigilante gear had been moved to the clock-tower, as they made it more secure. The two of them had spent a day ‘strength training’ as Sara put it, and demolished the stairway that lead to the top level.

Anyone could idly wander into the clock-tower, but there was no way to ascend to the higher levels where Sara had set things up. The only way in was over the rooftops, and there was a padlocked door in the way.

Once it was made inaccessible, Sara had been far more comfortable transferring things. Her outfit and wig were laid out over repurposed scaffold, protected by plastic sheets, and her staff was kept near it.

Primitive, and clearly improvised, but the clock-tower was beginning to feel almost homey.

After the snack break, Sara went over to the costumes. She’d acquired a couple of spares, after a few incidents of clothing damage. Knife-fights could be a pain.

“Try it on,” she said, throwing one set over to Laurel. With practised reactions, Laurel caught it.

It wasn’t long before Laurel was dressed as the Canary, in gloves and the leather jacket, donning the mask and wig last. She turned around, facing her sister.

“Suits you,” Sara said.

“You think?” Laurel said. She zipped up the jacket, unlike how Sara wore it: “There are a few changes I’d make.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

“I just meant for me,” Laurel said. “Like the mask, it just doesn’t feel right.”

“Did take a little getting used to,” Sara said. “Want a different type?”

“I will do,” Laurel said.

She stretched out, curiously, feeling how the costume constricted at a few points. From how tight it looked, she’d expected less freedom of movement. She was pleasantly surprised, but then she should have expected Sara to be practical.

“All I need now’s a staff,” Laurel said.

“Looking forward to training you with that,” Sara said. “And probably expecting a few concussions.”

“And a mirror,” Laurel said, looking around. “Add a mirror to the list of furnishings we need in here.”

“Staff, mirror, mask,” Sara said, feigning exhaustion. “Anything else to add to the shopping list?”

“Could go for a milkshake about now,” Laurel said.

“Me too, actually,” Sara said. “Want a break?”

“I thought this was our break?”

“More of a break,” Sara said. “You’ve got me craving milkshakes now.”

Laurel chuckled, shaking off the wig. She glanced at it, holding it in one hand, before dropping it.

“Sure,” Laurel said, “Just let me get changed.”

* * *

Two black-clad vigilantes were crouched on a rooftop when night came. Sara looked across at Laurel: tried to gauge her sister’s mood.

She could see nerves, and excitement, and perhaps impatience. When Laurel saw her watching, she smiled instead, trying to seem hopeful.

Well, nerves were to be expected.

Sara looked away, glancing down to the street. On her patrols, she’d seen what looked like a group casing a jewellery shop. She hadn’t wanted to strike first, without confirmation they were criminals.

Generic thieves were as good a first experience as any for Laurel.

“How long?” Laurel mouthed.

Sara shrugged. Truth be told, she wasn’t completely sure they were thieves at all: but if they were, this would be the best night for them to try.

Just as Sara was beginning to consider wandering the city and trying to find a random crime, a car drove up. A group of five, that Sara recognized, were visible: four got out, the fifth staying by the wheel.

“Good luck,” Sara said.

“Thanks,” Laurel said, and dropped to the street.

She’d practised that manoeuvre a few times. That, and similar near-acrobatic feats, were things Sara sometimes left her doing when she was called away.

Laurel landed on her feet, knees bent, looking up: and feeling an undeniable thrill as the four thieves seemed to confuse her for the typical Canary.

A moment of silence. Then: “Get her!”

Things seemed to slow down. As she moved, it was as though she was wading through memories. She could hear Sara’s voice: idle advice as to how to deal with a group.

If someone took charge or gave commands, they were probably the leader. When possible, target them first: it demoralizes, and confuses.

Laurel’s eyes focused on the man who’d shouted, and she leapt.

And then it was as though she was sparring with Sara again. Block, punch: press any advantage. The assumed leader fell to the street-

Someone hit her from behind. Laurel stumbled slightly, but she’d grown used to taking hits: sparring had that effect. Still, that was one thing she wasn’t trained for: couldn’t be trained for. Sparring sessions had only been her and Sara, she didn’t know how to face a group.

Then again, that was what real life experience was for.

She was back in a memory, hearing Sara’s words. Retreating is an undervalued tactic: it doesn’t need to be perfect, but if you feel overwhelmed or surprised, take a couple of seconds. Survey, plan, think.

Laurel ran forwards, and span. She had a second before the three remaining reached her-

She went through them one at a time, moving sideways to alter angle so that it would take a little time for the others to reach her. It didn’t take long to knock them out: after training with Sara, regular crooks barely compared.

The last of the four fell, and Laurel immediately recalled the driver. She span on the spot-

And saw the driver hurriedly getting out of the car, raising a gun. Laurel froze.

Sara had spoken on that too: there were plenty of ways to disarm someone. If someone pointed a gun at you, and didn’t shoot immediately, then they didn’t want to shoot: nine time out of ten simply trying to knock the gun away would work. If it didn’t, at least the bullet would likely miss.

But the driver was too far away. By the time she could reach him-

A staff went flying through the air, knocking the gun to the ground. The driver jumped, momentarily glancing sideways to see Sara effortlessly slipping down the fire escape, moving from roof to street in seconds.

“Now that wasn’t very fair,” Sara said.

“Two?!”

“Nah, just pretend I’m not here,” Sara said. “Have fun.”

The driver frowned, incredulous. When Sara didn’t move, though, he grimly turned his gaze back to Laurel.

“Don’t rush it, either,” Sara said, to Laurel that time. “You should experience someone else’s fighting style. Anyway, that’s all from me, you’re on your own.”

The driver took the initiative, lashing out.

The memory was broken. Before, it had been like fighting with Sara, but this was different. When an altercation took more than a couple of moves, she became particularly away of how rough her opponent’s technique was.

There was no smoothness to it: no grace, like Sara had. Less skill. Paradoxically, that put her on the back foot for a few seconds.

She was so used to facing Sara, predicting what Sara would do, that she was blindsided by someone with completely different techniques. The very imperfection of his style rendered it unpredictable, unlike what she’s faced before. Luckily, her confusion didn’t last long.

There were some tricks that were universally relevant. Once she stopped relying on muscle memory, Laurel began to feel confident. It wasn’t long before the driver was moving backwards.

“Good enough,” Sara said. “I’ll call the police. Feel like tying them up?”

Laurel knocked out the driver with one more blow, rocking on her feet and panting slightly.

“On it.”

* * *

They returned to the clock-tower for the night. It was easier than heading home, and explaining to their father why Laurel was dressed as the Canary too.

That, and they were starting to like the place. Laurel had been moving out when Sara had come back: she’d put her plans on hold to keep the family together. The clock-tower, now, seemed to fulfil the role of an apartment.

Somewhere along the way, the clock-tower had become a permanent second home for the two of them. They spent enough time there that they’d made it comfortable, and it was hard to imagine Sara moving on.

“Do you think we could get away with ordering pizza?” Laurel said.

“We don’t have wi-fi in here,” Sara said.

“If we did,” Laurel said. “Do you think they’d deliver?”

“Might do,” Sara said, “Though don’t know if it’s worth revealing our super-secret base just to deal with a case of the munchies.”

“Just speculating,” Laurel said.

That was the one downside, then. Sara had admittedly managed to amass an impressive collection of junk food and energy bars for snacks during training, but it would be nice to have a proper meal.

Laurel left her wig and mask over where the costumes were stored. Sara kept hers on; she seemed far more comfortable wearing them than Laurel.

“How’d I do?” Laurel said.

“Good,” Sara said. “Impressively.”

“I had a good teacher.”

“And you?” Sara said, “Still interested, after seeing what it’s like?”

“Sometimes it feels like you’re trying to talk me out of it,” Laurel said. “Can’t you just take yes for an answer?”

“I just want you to have a choice.”

“I’ve made it,” Laurel said.

Sara paused, and Laurel shifted. The mild irritation in her tone dried up.

“Sara?” she said.

“I never really had a choice, on the island,” Sara said. “That’s what made me- well, this. It’s just hard to picture anyone choosing that.”

“I’m not choosing that,” Laurel said. “I’m choosing this: you know I care about this city, and the people in it, and I don’t want to miss out on part of your life, like I missed those five years.”

Sara tilted her head, to regard Laurel. There was something odd in her eyes: maybe surprise, maybe gratitude.

“Thank you,” Sara said. “It means… something, for someone to choose to fight alongside me. It’s- different. Before, the only reason I worked with anyone was from necessity.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“Good,” Sara said. She smiled; “Plus you can keep an eye on me.”

“You’ve changed,” Laurel said, “I doubt you need it, now. Haven’t heard about the vigilante getting drunk anyway.”

“Not like that,” Sara said. “Sometimes- in the heat of the moment, I can forget I’m back home. It feels like I’m on the island again, in those five years, and-”

Sara faltered, for a moment. She wasn’t used to expressing vulnerability; she’d had to hide it, over her time away.

That and, somehow, it felt shameful. As though being home, and being with her family, wasn’t good enough: like she needed more. It was hard to not assume the worst.

But all Laurel did was place a hand on hers.

“I’ll be there, to remind you, then,” Laurel said.

Sara smiled, and said nothing, unsure of what she could add.

* * *

More and more, their training took them out to the streets. Laurel picked up on how to use the staff quickly, meaning the main area of her training left was how to deal with groups.

Generally, Sara just watched, intervening when Laurel was beginning to lose the upper hand or didn’t notice someone else joining the fight. Overconfidence was her main weakness, thinking someone defeated before they were, or assuming they wouldn’t have another weapon.

It was an easy error. In terms of raw skill. Laurel had to outclass the majority of their foes by now, just as Sara did. She just needed to forget that.

From benefit of time, Sara was the better fighter of the two, but she felt fairly sure Laurel would get pretty close over the next few months. She looked forward to it.

And in the clock-tower, a salvaged notice-board was used to track any mentions of the Starling City vigilantes: they’d gone out for a celebratory lunch the first time Laurel’s exploits were put into print.

Technically, the board was meant as a means to gauge both how successful they’d been, and to see if any connections or speculation might lead back to their secret identities. The ego-stroking didn’t hurt though.

Sara paid for the lunch, going to Laurel’s favourite place: her sister had a minor milkshake habit. They sat down, Sara making an expression of distaste when Laurel dipped a fry into her drink.

Noting her sister’s reaction, Laurel smiled and made sure to dip her next fry all the more obviously.

“It’s official,” Sara said, “You’re in the papers now, you need a name.”

Sara had idly called herself the Canary when rescuing someone, and the name had picked up in the press. The police had followed suite, to avoid having two distinct names for the same person.

“Something Canary-related,” Laurel said, “If I’m copying your costume, we should go for theme naming. Let you do all the work with the names and costumes.”

“Oh, thanks,” Sara said: chuckled. “Canary 2?”

“I don’t think so,” Laurel said, glaring just slightly. Then: “I actually kinda like Tweety.”

“Yep, a cartoon canary will strike fear into the hearts of evildoers,” Sara said, “Good choice.”

“To be fair, Canary isn’t exactly intimidating,” Laurel said.

“It’s still fitting.”

“How?” Laurel said. “You don’t even have a single bit of yellow in your costume, even the wig’s closer to white. Canary isn’t the first word that comes to mind.”

“It’s metaphorical,” Sara said. “And a long story. Take it up with dad.”

“Lot of backstory needed for a name,” Laurel said. “Still not striking me as particularly intimidating.”

“It seems to have worked,” Sara said. “You want to do better?”

Laurel paused for a moment. Then, she smiled.

“Black Canary,” she said.

Sara tilted her head contemplatively.

“I like it,” she said, eventually. “Just so long as you don’t expect me to start wearing yellow.”


End file.
